


Drones

by Amicia



Series: Sometimes a Fox [1]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Adventure, Aftermath of Torture, Consensual Sex, Ensemble Cast, F/M, Long, Romance, Slow Build, Spoilers, Sweet, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 14:18:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 171,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4482485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amicia/pseuds/Amicia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>drone, <i>noun</i><br/>i) a male insect in a colony of insects<br/>ii) a remotely-controlled craft or missile, generally unmanned and used for combat purposes<br/>iii) a tone, usually one note, that is carried throughout a song beneath a melody</p><p>Imperial Agent Cipher Nine and the Killik-altered diplomat Vector Hyllus occupy highly unique positions within the galaxy - and their struggles to understand those positions continue to draw them closer together.</p><p>[Covers from Taris (early/mid Chapter 2) through Chapter 3; some references/flashbacks to Chapter 1 events; Spoilers!]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Aftermath of Taris

**Author's Note:**

> Now part of a series!
> 
> _I am sometimes a fox and sometimes a lion. The whole secret of government lies in knowing when to be the one or the other. - Napoleon Bonaparte_

drone, _noun_

  1. a male insect in a colony of insects

  2. a remotely-controlled craft or missile, generally unmanned and used for combat purposes

  3. a tone, usually one note, that is carried throughout a song beneath a melody




 

 

Imperial Agent Cipher Nine was aware her feet were starting to drag as they carried her mutely across the last kilometer of the shredded grounds of Taris to the Imperial base. Her crewman Vector Hyllus was equally silent, perhaps as weary as she was – or maybe he recognized that she wanted to be alone with her thoughts. As part of the Killik hive-mind, she wondered idly, did he ever have the opportunity to do the same? Or was his every thought shared with thousands of other minds as soon as it came into being? And was every thought of the Killiks of Oroboro on Alderaan invading his head at all times as well? How could he keep his own sanity in such a case? It was bad enough sharing her head with _one_ intrusive visitor, she had difficulty imagining sharing it with several thousand. Not for the first time, she wondered if she were losing her mind, a victim to this brainwashing she was so ineffective in repelling, and she pushed the unpleasant thought away as rapidly as she had every other time it had broke upon her.

The brainwashing. Now that she knew of it, there was no second of any day where some part of her was not devoted to breaking it, either by will or by reasoning through it, and at every turn, she found herself thwarted, her every effort spent uselessly. She hadn't been able to alert Keeper at Imperial Intelligence, except by the very vaguest of hints; she had given up at the futility of trying to tell anyone else, even Vector. If he were a little bemused at some of her behavior of late, he had refrained from questioning her directly, preferring to trust in her ability to handle her missions.

They were returning now from just another such mission, retrieving a bit of machinery invented by a brilliant scientist, Nasan Godera, called the Ultrawave Transmitter. It had sounded simple enough, at first – but nothing ever was, and especially so on the ruined world of Taris. The Ultrawave Transmitter had been seized by a rogue Jedi who intended to use it to organize the Rakghouls, the violent, plague-ridden mutants of Taris, into an army, overseen by her cult of Nikto warriors. Vector wondered how the Jedi Masters could have so easily missed the instability of the Jedi woman, Ki Sizen; she was clearly unbalanced. Her aura was a sharply jumbled mix of dizzying colors, shot through with sparks of lurid shades. Unbalanced, perhaps, but not stupid: she was ambitious, organized, and far-seeing, and Vector agreed with Cipher's assessment of her potential to be a powerful asset for the Empire. Cipher had spared the Jedi, and sent her to Dromund Kaas to report to the Sith at the Citadel. Let Ardun Kothe of the Republic Strategic Information Service choke on that bit of news.

Vector frowned at the thought of the SIS man, shrouded in murky swirls of grey and self-righteousness. He knew Cipher's task was to play the double agent; Ardun Kothe was pushing her to be a triple agent to maintain her ostensible cover in the Imperial Service. Not an easy role to play, forever having to keep up the appearance of allegiance. Was it the stress of this, he wondered, that was having a diminishing effect on Cipher's aura? There was a certain dullness to it, almost palpable, and an off-color shade that troubled him. Instead of radiating from her, as he was accustomed to observe, it clung to her limply, dragging sluggishly at her limbs like some pernicious anchor. It had been that way ever since Ardun Kothe had demanded to speak to her privately, when she first infiltrated his team. Vector had been concerned at being ordered out of the room – he did not trust Kothe, and most particularly did not trust his lieutenant, the insinuating blank entity who called himself Hunter. But Cipher had given him a glance to comply, and at the time, he did it, and had marveled at how much he had relearned about non-verbal communication between humanoid races. He hadn't needed a link to her mind to know what she had meant, a sign that either he had recovered a certain amount of his humanity – things that had been long-forgotten when the Killik pheromones had overwritten his human physiology and Joined him to the hive – or that simply he had worked with Cipher at least long enough that he was now able to read her intent, even if the the rest of the universe's inhabitants remained inscrutable in their isolated songs. He trusted her, and obeyed, and regretted it later, when he saw that something about her had changed. What had happened in that room?

Long before they had met, she had given up her native identity to Imperial Intelligence, as he had given up his to the Killiks when he Joined, but while his state was permanent, she was demanded to change her stripes on nearly a daily basis, perhaps oftener. But for all that, the essence of who she was, at her core, was visible to his enhanced vision and undeniable – or had been, until whatever had happened with Kothe. She might change her name, she might be forced to appear often as what she was not, but she was, still and always, the capable, strong Chiss woman he had met on Alderaan: meticulous, duty-driven, and thorough, and tinged with a certain amorality that made her so efficient at her work. She was still Paha Fennec, just as he was still Vector Hyllus.

The universe would change, their lives would change, their identities would change – hers by Intelligence, his by the Kind – but there was still a core fiber at each of their beings. It had taken him time and effort to start to rediscover his, after he had left Alderaan. As Dawn Herald, in recognition of his past life and of his potential to be the bridge between the Nest and the universe beyond, he had the honor of maintaining a slight measure of individuality among the hive mind, but the warmth and support of the collective had been there from the instant he had Joined. It had been a sorrowful rending, as the _Phantom_ sped away from Alderaan and he felt the presence of the Oroboro hive mind fade from him, until it was just a barely audible whisper in the void that had been left behind – he knew it had to be there, and he strained to hear it. But it was that distance that was now enabling and demanding him to recall the old traces of his life, of when he had been human, and to relearn what that meant. Not an easy thing, he found. He imagined that it must be as difficult for Cipher to keep hold of her core fiber, too.

Cipher. Paha Fennec. It had been kind of her to share her name, her private name, with him, and his mind drifted back to the occasion, when she had accompanied him for the reunification of the Alderaan nests with the Lost Colony, the Killiks who had ventured across the stars. That had been a time for unhindered joy, and he had been surprised at the depth of excited pleasure he had felt that she had accepted the invitation to join him and celebrate alongside the denizens of the nests. He had been surprised, too, that, touched by the visible delight the Killiks took in recovering their lost brethren, she had told her name to him in the middle of all the festivities, until she shared her reasons, as well: “I have no family,” she said. “I have no ties. There is no one to threaten, no one to kill, no one to blackmail. So in all of this universe, what does the meager fact of my name matter? I am alone.”

She said it simply and factually, without bitterness or sorrow, and if he had been reliant on solely the unspoken cues of human-like communication, he would have thought that it didn't bother her. But there had been no mistaking the eruption of melancholy that had swirled through her aura which had been glowing a joyful ochre and shimmering with flashes of curiosity and delight.

It was an awful prospect, he realized then, one in direct opposition to something he had taken somewhat for granted. He would always be welcomed here. His presence would always be noted and his absence would always be missed. He had asked her once, about her family, and although she had deflected the question, teasing that he was only interested in finding out her single status, she had been honest then, too: she had no family. It was likely one of the circumstances of her life that made her so effective at what she did, but as the full realization of what it meant impressed itself upon him, he found it intolerably lonely. No one was waiting for her. No one was there to welcome her home. No one missed her when she was gone. If she never returned, it would be noted in a log by Keeper, and then life would resume its normal course at Imperial Intelligence with hardly a ripple, and a new agent would be advanced into the place she had left vacant. She was, indeed, a true cipher. A non-entity, noticed by no one, her existence insignificant, other than what she accomplished for Imperial Intelligence, and, at that, fairly easily replaced. In short, no one cared. How could she endure it? The horror of such an isolated life, in comparison to what he had all about him, was deeply upsetting to him, but he was at as deep a loss to address it, particularly to her. It was too heavy a topic for so joyful a time and place. There was a determined glint in her scarlet eyes, and that sorrowful shade was gone almost as soon as it appeared, pushed roughly away as she gave him a smile and looked at him directly.

“Well, not so much any more, I suppose,” she conceded mildly. “I am not entirely without allies, now. I have you. And Kaliyo.” Vector was sure that even if he'd had more of his humanity at his command, he would have yet been unable to sift through all the multicolored layers of that admission.

The glowing phosphorescent lights of the hive danced highlights in her indigo hair and reflected vibrant gems in the depths of her red eyes. Her presence here beside him was a soaring descant above the harmonic chorus that rang throughout the hive in a paean of elation. The air hummed, heavily perfumed with a sweet and intoxicating scent that mingled musk and nectar, and, alongside every member of the hive, Paha drank heady golden membrosia and laughed with delight. It was not often easy to separate his own feelings from that of the hive, but that night it had been simple; that night, he suspected he loved her. The nest had almost instantaneously quizzed him on it; the notion of an individual prizing another individual above others was as alien a thought to them as the Killik collective consciousness was to a human, and they were promptly curious and inquisitive, as they always were about what lay beyond the limits of their own collective experience. He would have rather kept the discovery to himself, but his own individuality was not yet established enough to hide so strong an emotion from the hive.

_We value her. She values the hive. We care for allies._ It was a terrible translation, and he dared not express a hope that she might come to value him, as an individual, with all the attendant questions that would bring, but it was the best he could do for now. The hive seemed satisfied with that answer, at any rate.

He returned her smile then, a gesture that had felt foreign to him when he first left Alderaan, but which this time came to his face easily, without force. “You are doing very well,” he complimented her, with worlds of meaning wrapped up in that single, simple phrase.

But that had been a more carefree time, before this assignment that absorbed the entirety of her focus. He would not for the universe disrupt that. He knew she needed now no distractions to ensure their success here. And so it was that Paha was buried, and only Cipher, the double agent, walked before his ink-black eyes. This _was_ a difficult mission, and she clearly _was_ tired. Every line of her body indicated weariness. Perhaps what he sensed was nothing more than that. Except...except for that alteration, that dullness in her aura. Perhaps when she no longer had to do with Ardun Kothe, or that insinuating Hunter, she would be her usual brilliant self. So he kept his concerns to himself, but resolved to keep watch.

Cipher led the way up the ramp of the ship. “Can you ensure Doctor Lokin's transfer is progressing smoothly?” she asked. “I'm going to report in with base command. I'm sure they don't want to be kept waiting.”  Doctor Eckard Lokin was the newest asset to their little crew: an aging scientist, himself with several ties to Imperial Intelligence, with an interest in xenobiology, one aspect of which was a self-tested serum to control the rakghoul plague mutation more or less at will.  Strange, Vector reflected, that the only person on this ship who hadn't radically changed herself in some way - at least, in any way he was yet aware of - was the anarchist Rattataki woman, Kaliyo Djannis.  She was essentially the epitome of "what you see is what you get" - brash, self-interested, and occasionally frighteningly violent.

“Of course, Agent,” Vector nodded, turning away and hoping Ardun Kothe would not dump another mission on her. As he headed for the cargo bay, he took a quick glance behind him at the slumped shoulders of her retreating form while she took the device they had fought so hard to obtain to the holoterminal in the ship's lounge.

Cipher paused briefly at a console to take the ship off standby, and she noted approvingly from the door logs that Kaliyo had been busy helping Doctor Lokin bring his equipment on board. Good. She could be a handful, but she knew how to make herself useful, when she was inclined to be. As she skimmed the notification screen, the words on the display abruptly blurred and danced together nauseatingly, and she braced herself against the console, wincing at the sharp pain that lanced behind her eyes.

_It's in your head. You can't keep it there._

That voice; that cold, mocking voice, yet again!  This was not the first time it had taunted her.  It was useless to believe it a figment of her imagination; she had promptly given up on the notion of that fantasy but it gave her no further insight on what the truth of it was. Part of the brainwashing, or a side effect? Or something else entirely? Well, let it chatter, damn it all. She still had work to do. She crossed to the holoterminal and hailed her contact.

“This is Legate to Base Command. I have retrieved the Ultrawave Transmitter.”

The holoterminal flickered to life almost immediately, displaying the blue-white image of Ardun Kothe. He must have been waiting for her call. “Base command here,” he said, wasting no time on formalities. “Legate, connect the Godera device to your linkup, I'll download what I need. I got word that Ki Saizen escaped Taris – took a shuttle headed for Imperial space.”

Paha glanced up from hooking the transmitter into the terminal ports and shrugged. “I couldn't stop her,” she lied casually. “It was either her or the transmitter, and the transmitter was the top priority.”

“You made the right choice, Legate. The transmitter is more important than one rogue Jedi,” Kothe answered. The Republic, entirely ignoring the complete devolution of a knight into madness and the Dark Side? Curious, but Paha felt she didn't have the energy to be properly surprised. There was an odd faint sort of crackling in the depths of her ears, and it was very distracting. The holoterminal console chirped, and Kothe nodded. “Download's complete. Let's hope the genius in that thing helps us win this war.”

Paha blinked. On the other side of the ship, through the glow of the holoterminal, she was certain she had seen a droid pass across the corridor. It wasn't her ship's droid, Toovee. Maybe it was an assistant that Lokin had brought on board. But that, she reflected stupidly, didn't explain how it could walk across a corridor where there were no doors on either side.

 _It's breaking your skull. Can you hear it crack?_ The voice flickered through the static in her ears, and she was unable to shake the sense of familiarity the voice gave her.

“Yes,” she said, no longer certain if she were answering Kothe or the voice in her head.

“You don't look so good, Legate,” Kothe observed. He even had the gall to sound genuinely concerned. “Take a few days. Check in with your bosses. You'll have another job soon.”

She closed her eyes briefly, and replied mechanically, “Of course.” When she opened her eyes, Kothe's holo image was gone, replaced by the image of Darth Jadus, in full color and wreathed in fire, thrusting an angry fist towards her, and she gasped in horror. “I shot you!” she reminded herself, “You're not real; I killed you!”

Paha spun away from the terminal to see a body suspended in the air, twisted with torture and wracked with pain, and she desperately hoped that the sounds of sobbing she heard were not issuing from her own throat. She flung herself from the sight, frantically trying to convince herself this was just her imagination, and at the door of the bridge, she met Ardun Kothe himself, his face suddenly distorting inhumanly with a bestial growl.  Surfacing through the panic that gripped her, she knew she had at last met the terrifying prospect that she had indeed finally lost her mind. She had barely the presence of reason to hope that, if she were to collapse, it would be best done in her own room, and as she staggered through the door to her quarters, her ears filled with the sound of Keeper's disdainful laughter from where she sat on the bed with a sniggering man, while a hulking beast hunched in the corner and watched.

 _Can you see?_ The sardonic voice echoed in her ears, sounding more familiar than ever before.

Even the paltry comfort of passing out in her own room was to be mockingly denied her, and Paha stumbled back, wildly uncertain of which way to turn, until she saw, somehow out of the back of her skull, the Minister of Intelligence, her former Keeper in whom she had placed so much reliance and trust, raise his blaster and fire directly into her spine. Her ability to distinguish between reality and vision was gone, and her enervated limbs could no longer support her. Paha crumpled to the ground, as motionless as if her spinal cord had been severed in truth.

And yet, the unconsciousness that she now hoped for did not come. Her eyes remained fixedly open, and she saw two bare feet step before her.

“Agent. Cipher Nine. Legate.” Paha was certain she knew the owner of the voice now. “Disposable operative. It's been a while since Shadow Town.”

She feebly tried to raise her head from the floor. “You. Watcher X, the Nar Shaddaa mission. I do know you. I killed you.”

“Yes, formerly Watcher Five, formerly Minder Eight,” he knelt beside her, bracing one arm on his knee. “I helped you with your terrorist problem. I performed surgery on you. Do you remember? A chip in your spine to disguise your life readings. Maybe that chip is how we're talking now, or maybe it's the stress, double agent. Triple agent. The brainwashing damages your mind.”

“I find it hard to believe that any brainwashing program would include conversations with _you,_ honestly, Watcher X,” Cipher replied sarcastically. “Even after damage.”

Watcher X seemed to appreciate it; a small smirk flickered across his dirty face before he spoke again.  “I was in your position once. Trapped by my conditioning. Forced to subvert it. I warned you they'd do the same to you. The SIS isn't to blame. We both know you were programmed before you met them.”

“So what's your point?” Cipher said. She was becoming more assured that this was not merely her own stress talking. In her imagination, entities were rarely so self-satisfied or pompous.

“You've seen brainwashing technology before: Slave-control serums on Dromund Kaas, loyalty instincts bred into Watchers, an Imperial diplomat infused with Killik pheromones. The Republic is only using what the Empire put in your mind.”

“Very well, suppose you're right,” Paha answered. For some reason she wasn't about to mentally investigate now, the thought of Keeper having originally set this program on her did not bother her nearly as much as the notion of the SIS using it against her and the Empire. “What did they do to me, and how did the Republic gain access?”

“I don't know,” Watched X admitted, “and I don't know – I have my limits. I know most of their techniques. But this... I don't recognize. If you want freedom – if you want revenge – then we need more information. Imperial Intelligence will have records on Dromund Kaas. Take your personnel files from the Citadel Archives. Be sure no one sees you. You have no allies now.”

A fuzzy blackness infringing around the edge of her vision began to spread, and as Watcher X stood up and stepped back, Paha could just see his feet, retreating into the narrowing tunnel of vision that stretched before her unfocusing eyes, until even that pinpoint of light was gone, and, thankful at last for the mercy of release, she let her head fall to the floor and the darkness take her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This is my first time really writing/uploading a fanfic. I will do my best to not suck.
> 
> 2\. I started listening to Muse's new album "Drones" as I was writing this, and album's themes struck me as particularly apt: war on a global (or galactic) scale, military ruthlessness, brainwashing, governmental control, the corrupting influence of power, and people's reactions to these things. It also got me thinking about the various definitions of the word "drone," which led me to adopting the word for the title.
> 
> 3\. I'm wordy. I've been reading a lot of Fanny Burney and Samuel Richardson lately. No shame, no remorse!
> 
> 4\. Many conversations taken directly from SWTOR, with or without slight alterations/expansions.
> 
> 5\. Since my first RPG (City of Heroes!), I've always somehow named my characters after foxes, usually using the word for "fox" in various foreign languages. For SWTOR, I chose "Fennec" (the most adorable fox ever; seriously, go look it up) for the legacy name and various epithets in a variety of languages for the given name. In this case, "Paha" is Finnish for "evil," however, I found her actually very carefully treading an extremely neutral line rather than following her namesake. Her view is genuinely to serve the Empire, and the sloppy chaotic evil of many of the Sith disgusts her. She feels it is better to make a Light Side decision if it will enforce good will or loyalty to the Empire.


	2. Fragility

Kaliyo wasn't generally much of one for logistics or for helping others, but Vector admitted she had done very well in getting Lokin's equipment on board and organized quickly. The ship's medical bay was already tolerably well stocked, so much of Lokin's personal devices were in temporary storage in the cargo hold, for him to stow and transfer to their permanent homes at his leisure, once they were off of Taris. Things looked well in hand here, so he decided to give Cipher an update for their expected departure time. Although, he thought to himself as he left the hold, that was, in truth, but a pretense. He couldn't shake the nagging feeling of _wrongness_ , and he wanted to assure himself that Paha was coping with it, whatever it was. He would have appreciated having contact with the hive mind – they had liked her, too, it seemed, even aside from their sharing his appreciation of her, and had thought well of her attendance at the reunification celebration; their support would have been a kindness.

Hearing no sound from the ship lounge ahead, he took that to mean that her conversation with Ardun Kothe was finished, so he was unsurprised to see the holoterminal standing dark and quiet in the middle of the room. Perhaps Paha was on the bridge, preparing for takeoff – Vector caught himself sharply. A booted foot, and part of a leg, was visible sprawled across the floor on the far side of the holoterminal. He was in motion before the fear had even fully iced his heart, racing across the ship's deck to where Paha lay face down and senseless, her aura energy low and muddy, swirling only under the force of a feeble flicker. With a tender urgency, he rolled her towards him, chafing her hands – they were cold, he noticed, very cold – and patting her face – not, either, how he had once idly imagined touching her for the first time. There was no reaction; she lay limply over his supporting arm, her head lolling to the side.

“Doctor!” Vector shouted, his voice high-pitched and pointed with immediacy. He slid an arm under her knees and hoisted her weight to his chest – it seemed to be less than he had expected, but it was true a body reacted strongly in an emergency – and shouted again as he stood, “Doctor Lokin!”

Lokin's head snapped up in the cargo hold and he made brief eye contact with Kaliyo, sharing an astonished glance at the frantic cry. “That's... not a good sound,” Kaliyo said uncertainly, but Lokin was already halfway out the cargo door, and she hurried around the crates and trotted up the corridor after him. He had already appraised the situation in a swift look as he emerged from the corridor into the main room, where he met Vector crossing to the medical bay with the agent's lifeless form in his arms, and began instantly issuing commands.

“Quickly, quickly, into the med bay,” Lokin urged with a gesture, already rummaging the cabinets for supplies. “Step back and let me see her.” Gently laying Paha on the medical bed, Vector hastily retreated to where Kaliyo waited in the doorway.

“What happened?” she demanded.

“We do not know,” Vector answered gravely, “we found her like this, beside the holoterminal.”

“The holoterminal, huh? Give me a minute.” Kaliyo went to the terminal, and began inspecting it closely, while Vector anxiously eyed the Doctor as the medical monitors clicked to life, beeping and chirping. After a few minutes, she returned. “It wasn't the most thorough check ever, but I can't find any evidence that the holoterminal has been tampered with.”

“Tampered with!” repeated Vector in alarm. “What do you mean?”

“You know, a shock pulse wired into the receiver or something. It would be an easy thing to do. That kind of thing doesn't take much technical know-how, and with the Doc and I coming in and out...” she shrugged. “Someone could have sneaked on board without our knowing.”

“Hm,” mused the Doctor, glancing up from the bed where he was observing the ineffective result of an adrenal he had administered, “Trust you to think of something like that.”

“Are you suggesting something?” Kaliyo demanded hotly, bristling. “If you are, I'd rather you just come out and say it. I had nothing to do with this!”

“We insist you both stop this,” Vector snapped. “This is not the time, or the place.”

“Kaliyo,” the Doctor said mildly, “I was only commenting that of all of us, you are perhaps the most knowledgeable on a tactic of this nature. It wasn't an accusation, just an acknowledgment of your expertise.”

“Yeah?” Kaliyo's defensive voice was losing its razor edge. “Well. Right. Thanks, I guess. Sorry. Or something.”

“We think it was a good idea,” Vector agreed, ever ready to step into the role of the mediator. He scrubbed a hand across his chin, trying to mask his anxiety, and there was a faint, very faint, ripple of concern from the Killik collective that tickled in the back of his mind. Normally, in the far-flung depths of space, he could no longer hear them clearly, but even at this distance, they had noted that one of their own was in distress, and had responded accordingly. It must have taken a terrific outpouring of thought-energy to have bridged the gap between them, and he was grateful for it, never considering the idea that it must have taken an equally significant display on his part for them to have heard him in the first place. “It showed wisdom.”

“Sure.” Kaliyo sounded wary, but vaguely encouraged, and she circled around to the other side of the medical bed, looking up at the monitors as they clicked with each point of data they measured. “So what's the deal, Doc? What's wrong with her?”

“I'm not sure, honestly. There is no illness, no infection, no signs of anything wrong, medically speaking. Her heart rate and respiration were initially rapid and her temperature was low, but both of these were already correcting themselves before my intervention. There are some slightly unusual signs of brain activity, but nothing that would cause this...” he trailed off, thinking as he turned over the stim he held in his hands. “It could be simple tiredness. Or, it might not. I just don't have enough to know yet – but I would encourage you both to keep a close watch on her. She was fortunate that she was here on the ship when this happened. Out there...” he trailed off, realizing he didn't need to finish the thought. He leaned over the bed to administer the stim, then glanced the monitors to observe the effect.

“Good, good... the readings are stable.”

Far off, as through a muffling cloud, Paha could hear the sound of a mechanical beeping, and a low, male voice – something about stables? How odd. Her curiosity was piqued, and although her eyelids felt heavy, she slowly pushed them open, unprepared for the sharp bright light that pierced her vision. She winced, and recognized Doctor Lokin's voice.

“Ah! Our patient is awake.”

The older man's face came slowly into focus, hovering over her head, and it took Paha a few minutes to orient herself. She was bewildered to be in her own medical bay, and she lay still a moment, piecing together her last memories before all had gone dark. There were other people in the room she sensed, automatically raising her guard as she slowly raised her head. Spying Kaliyo and Vector, she relaxed slightly, and slowly sat up, rapidly doing her best to force her faculties back into their accustomed roles. She blinked a few times, glancing between her companions with a hand to her aching brow. Vector spoke first.

“We found you in the plague-sleep. We watched, but could not mend you.” There was a softness to his voice that Paha recognized as the sound of relief after intense anxiety, and she was touched.

“Thank you,” she answered slowly. “I appreciate the thought, but... I'll be alright. Just exhausted.” She still couldn't tell him about the brainwashing – she could already recognize the uselessness of the attempt, even as the thought crossed her mind. She couldn't even tell him about Watcher X, his voice messing with her head as much as the codeword that kept forcing her into actions she didn't want to take. She couldn't do anything except let him know she was grateful for his concern. She hoped that would be enough, at least for now. Maybe, with luck, he would see through it. Maybe he could guess at what was chaining her down.

Vector shook his head, his voice grave. “No, you're not.” Paha's heart gave a lurch. Had he understood? Did he know how much had gone wrong? Her hope faded again as he continued, “But this isn't the hive, and we can't hear your thoughts. We respect your privacy.”

Doctor Lokin interrupted a moment that seemed inclined to grow awkward, bringing them back to the matter at hand. “It's been a while since I've played ship's doctor, but there is something odd here, Cipher.”

Yes, she knew that. She stood up from the medical bed. What could she say? The memory of the phantom Minister of Intelligence shooting her in the back pushed its way into her mind alongside Watcher X's final warning, _You have no allies now_. Not true, not true. She had Keeper – her boss who could be assured of taking whatever step, no matter how unscrupulous, was necessary to ensure a mission was successful; she had Kaliyo – Kaliyo whom she knew had betrayed every one of her former partners, and who was likely to betray her, too; she had Doctor Lokin – a former Intelligence entity she had just met and knew almost nothing of other than that he could transform into an uncontrollable, mutated beast; and she had Vector – a man who had allowed himself to be fundamentally altered and now owed a dual allegiance to the Empire and an intergalactic insect colony. What a list.

But for all that, she had no doubts about Vector, at least. They had fought side-by-side so often – it must be hundreds of times, by now – and never once had he faltered. She returned trust for trust. Many an agent would never do so, saying that was a sure path to winding up dead, but Paha refused to start second-guessing her decision now.

“Then I leave it to you to get to the bottom of it, Doctor,” she replied, smoothing down her rumpled uniform. It was as near as a plea for help as she could give.

“Certainly. For now, my prescription is some food and some sleep,” Lokin advised with an encouraging smile. “I've already programmed your droid with some of my favorite recipes! He's making one now, and I suggest you eat some of it.”

Paha, poised at the threshold of the medical pay, returned the smile tiredly. “As you command, Doctor. Thank you,” she said, then, expanding her gratitude to the broader circle, she repeated, “Thank you all, very much.” Attempting to drop her businesslike demeanor back into place, she added, “I'm setting course for Dromund Kaas. We're going home.” She turned away and left, her footsteps receding without their usual authoritative sound.

Home? The three exchanged glances. Vector considered the nest on Alderaan as his home. Lokin had squirreled away hidey-holes all over the galaxy. Kaliyo had been everywhere, and come from nowhere, other than an oblique reference to a miserable childhood on the far-flung dirtball planet Rattatak. The notion of Dromund Kaas being home for any of them was as ludicrous as Cipher calling it such.

“We think you are correct, Doctor,” Vector said, still troubled. “Her song does not sing true. There _is_ something very odd here.”

\- - - -

Paha sat at the small table adjoining the tiny galley kitchen in the depths of the ship, and raised an eyebrow at the droid as it placed a platter in front of her.

“This is just the thing, master! Doctor Lokin assures me that this is the very best for bolstering one's strength and fortitude. It is very healthy, and I am certain it will be quite tasty!”

“Right, yes, thank you,” she said, trying not to sound irritated at the droid's effusive officiousness as she picked up her fork. He was, after all, just doing his job, but having been unceasingly regaled with the virtues of the dish for the past ten minutes, she was hoping he would let her eat in peace. Instead, he waited at hand, watching her intently, eagerly waiting for her reaction as she gingerly took a nibble.

“Yes, it is very good. Quite tasty.” In truth, she hadn't even noticed the flavor. “I'm sure it is very... bracing.”

“Oh, wonderful, master! I will let Doctor Lokin know how much you have enjoyed it! He will be so pleased!”

“That's – that's quite alright. I can tell him myself,” she held up an arresting hand. “Would you mind checking the calibration of the engine coupler?” She knew it was working perfectly fine, but any excuse to send him away was a welcome one.

“Right away, master! I should have thought to check it earlier. I will not be so remiss again, I assure you!”

As the droid vanished down the corridor, Paha took another two bites, then set down her fork and rubbed her temples. The food wasn't bad, honestly, but she didn't have much of an appetite.

“I have just the thing for that,” came Kaliyo's voice from the doorway. She leaned a shoulder against the wall and folded her arms.

“I'm not sure I could handle a liter of Devaronian vodka right now, Kaliyo,” Paha raised her head and offered her friend a wan smile.

“Nah, we'll save that for a better day. What I do have, though, is a bottle of jessivite crystals. Very relaxing.”

Paha raised an amused eyebrow. “You? Have a bottle of the most expensive soap in the galaxy?”

“They're bath stones, and yeah, why wouldn't I?” Kaliyo smirked. “You know I like the finer things in life. I'm worth a little bit of luxury. It's good stuff. They say it's mined by Sullustan orphans.”

“Let me guess: their tears enhance the potency of the scent?”

“Something like that.”

“Kaliyo, you don't really believe that.”

“Doesn't matter if I do. Doesn't matter if it's true or not, either. It makes for a good story. All I can say is, it works.” She stepped forward and set a small vial on the table. “Here you go. Try it. Free of charge, even.”

“Thanks, Kaliyo.”

“Whatever. Don't get all soft on me.”

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

The jessivite crystals _did_ smell wonderful, and they _were_ relaxing, Paha found herself admitting as she rinsed her hair. They didn't have a particularly spacious or luxurious lavatory on the _Phantom_ , but she allowed herself an extra-long shower, and breathed in the scent slowly, letting it soothe her rattled nerves. The crystals, vaporizing in the hot water, gave off a comforting musky scent, sweet without cloying, and the odor reminded her a little of the scent of the Killik hive on the night of the party. They reminded her a little of the scent of Vector. Perhaps Kaliyo's penchant for pampering herself would be a good habit to acquire.

As she returned to her quarters, she found Vector standing beside her door, lost in thought, and he turned his black eyes on her as she approached. “Can I help you, Vector?” she inquired mildly, hoping she didn't sound as weary as she feared she did.

“Perhaps. We were thinking we may in fact help you, if we may ask for a favor,” Vector offered thoughtfully.

“I'll see what I can do,” Paha answered. While she took an active interest in the lives of all her companions, she found herself often striving to go an extra kilometer for Vector in his personal mission to create an Imperial-Killik alliance, and even in her current state was unwilling to put him off. Nonetheless, she privately hoped it was something she could handle after a few hours of sleep.

“Some time back,” Vector said with a quiet hesitation, “you were kind enough to extend an invitation to us to come by your room of an evening. We were wondering if we might accept that invitation now.”

It wasn't often that Paha was caught so wholly by surprise, and he saw the flat red surface of her eyes widen and the warmth of her blue skin change, while her aura, recovering some of its color from the sluggish, deathly pale of earlier, danced in astonishment, confusion, and – he almost missed it – interest.

“Vector,” she replied slowly, “this _is_ unexpected...” It wasn't that she hadn't thought about it. She had, and rather more than she would admit even to herself. For goodness sake, she had been the one to do the inviting, after all! And it had lain there, the ignored white gundark between them, the offer neither accepted nor repeated, but apparently, latent in the thoughts of both.

His own face, he was aware, flushed slightly – it struck him as quite a human reaction – and he attempted to choose his next words carefully. “We did not mean to make implications, although, we admit, we –” He broke off. As a diplomat, he had enjoyed a studied and easy facility with language, the most potent weapon at an ambassador's command, and it was to his chagrin that he found that joining the hive mind had fairly undercut his ability to wield it with delicacy. What need had a people for the forms and conventions of artful discussion when meaning and intent could be conveyed with a thought? He made a mental note to work on this during his studies to revive his humanity.

“What we mean is,” he clarified, “today, we were all much alarmed to see you unwell, and that you might have lain there unassisted for some time. We have known other individuals who have fainted from exhaustion or overwork, and in each case, they recovered quickly. We saw this was not the case with you. It took Doctor Lokin some effort to revive you. We are concerned that if you are alone, and you are overcome again, there will be no one by to offer you assistance. Thus we ask that we be allowed to watch nearby, for aid, should it be necessary. If not this, then we ask that you sleep tonight in the medical bay, under Doctor Lokin's supervision.”

“You, too?” Paha asked, sighing.

“We beg your pardon?”

“All evening, since that happened, it's been one right after another, all of you, even Toovee, treating me like I'm...” Paha could feel the frustration mounting in her voice, and fought it back. This was the last person she wanted to take out her stress on. She took a breath and let it out slowly. “Like I'm _fragile_.” She made an impatient gesture with her hands and said the word as though it made her feel filthy just to utter it.

“Agent,” Vector observed, his voice gentle, “we know you are many things, but fragile is not one of them. Hence why we are so concerned. We have considered that the medical bay may be the best place and Doctor Lokin has agreed to stay with you.”

It was difficult to always know, Paha thought, when “we” meant her staff on board the ship, the Killik hive mind, or Vector speaking for himself. Did it matter? She shook herself out of pondering the question. There were more important matters at hand. She attempted to steady herself with another sigh, and hoped she sounded grateful.

“I know you all mean well,” she answered. “And I do appreciate it. But no, I would never get a wink of sleep if I had to sleep in the med bay!”

“Very well, then you accept our presence. Thank you,” Vector inclined his head in a graceful nod that nonetheless indicated the finality of the decision. “We will not disturb you. We will remain at your desk, working on our memoirs.” He pressed the panel that opened the door and stood aside, waiting for her to enter.

“Now, wait a minute – ” Paha objected futilely.

“We have given you two options, and you have rejected one,” Vector replied steadily. “There is only one option left. We will give you ten minutes to yourself first.”

“You are relentless!” Paha exclaimed. She entered the room nonetheless, and tapped the door shut behind her, following it with another code. The panel gave a dull short buzz in response.

“We have overridden the lock,” Vector's voice came muffled through the door. “You forgot you gave us the security codes? They will reset in eight hours.”

“Impossible!” Paha tapped the panel again, and was answered by another buzz.

“We told you so,” Vector replied.

“If I didn't know you better, I would say you were enjoying this!” Paha stripped off her uniform irritably and shoved it in the closet, pulling on her accustomed sleepwear, a simple shirt and loose pants. Feeling mulish, she sat on the bed, pulled the blankets over her legs, and folded her arms.

“Fine,” she conceded with rather bad grace. The door opened, and Vector stepped in, not without some caution, and the door hissed shut behind him, cutting out the whir of the consoles and equipment of the ship.

“We're not, you know,” Vector answered, and the solemnity of his voice made Paha look up at him. “Enjoying this, we mean.”

 _Then help me! Free me!_ She wanted to scream, but she knew the words would choke her before they ever made it past her throat. There would be no help from him, or anyone else. She would have to help herself before he would ever know she needed it, let alone be able to offer it.

Abashed at her sullen behavior, Paha unfolded her arms. “If you need to leave the desk lamp on to work, you can,” she answered quietly. “It won't bother me.”

“Thank you,” he answered, sitting down at the desk with his data pad and turning on the small light. “We will do our best to be unobtrusive.”

She turned down the room light, and settled into the bed, unnerved by more today than just the hallucinations. Vector could see her aura glowing on the pillow, gradually shifting to a calmer shade, although it still had that dullness that worried him. Her voice suddenly floated across the room to him.

“Vector?”

“Yes, agent?”

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome.”

\- - - -

The sky overhead was a ghastly lurid shade of red, like it had been washed again and again for centuries in blood, and streaked with clouds of a green, nauseating hue. Even the few sprinkles of rain that fell were reddish, and smelled of hot metal and chemicals. She ran, the heavy blaster fire from the eliminator war droids sizzling past her ears to the right and to the left. A rock exploded beside her, the sharp shards tearing through the reinforced fabric of her pants and into her flesh below, and she stumbled with a cry. Just to the right her, she saw Vector slow his step, veering towards her. “Go!” she shouted. “Go! Just run!”

He took her at her word, and hastened his pace again, just as she felt the cable lariat shot by the suppression droid close around her neck. She yanked her vibrodagger from its sheathe, but before she could cut the cable, a second cord had ensnared her arm, and she pulled at it with a wild desperation, her feet digging into the dirt beneath her as she strove frantically to follow Vector. Her other arm was caught now, and her breath ran ragged in her bruised throat as she felt the hot tears coursing freely down her cheeks, overflowing from terror, grief, and the shame of her failure as she sank to the ground. And Vector ran on, not looking back.

Fully pinioned, she raised her blurry eyes and shrieked aloud at the sight: she was surrounded by droids with each and everyone wearing the face of either Ardun Kothe or the Minister of Intelligence. It was as if hundreds of clones had been slaughtered and skinned, their fleshless hides now ghoulishly adorned the mocking metal forms of the droids, all leering toothless grins from sagging mouths that opened towards her, bent on shredding the flesh from her body. “No!” she whimpered, cringing with fear and its attendant humiliation, “Stay back!”

To her surprise, the droids halted, then parted, revealing a single man. Hunter. He held the ends of the cables that bound her, and, horror-stricken, she saw that they had wormed their way under her skin, sinking deep into her muscles, moving her limbs against all her efforts to prevent it. She could feel their poisonous heat as they seared their way into her bones, utterly indifferent to her cries and struggles. She flailed and writhed, powerless as an insect in a spider's web, casting about madly for help.

“Vector?” Hunter sneered with a knowing smile. “He won't help you. He's gone. You told him to go. There is no one here but me. And I own you now.” He twitched the cords in his hand, and she found herself jerked abruptly to her feet, her blood dripping into the dust below her as she moved like a grotesque marionette. He pulled the cords again, laughing in a cold and brutally indifferent tone, and as she felt her limbs yanked this way and that, again and again, a mockery of a hideous dance, she sobbed aloud at her own uselessness.

“Agent! Paha!”

Her eyes flew open.

Vector stood stooping over her bed, one hand on her shoulder, shaking her awake. In the glow from the lamp on the desk, she could see the concern that stamped itself in lines around the night-black eyes.

“You were dreaming,” he said unnecessarily, giving her a few moments to gather herself. He had been sitting at the desk, idly flipping through his work, but not giving it his closest attention as his gaze wandered often to the soft, sleep-tinted aura occupying the bed across the room. Here, in the quiet dark, he had spent the time searching his feelings, now that he had the leisure to do so without being under the full scrutiny of the hive mind. After the alarm of earlier, he had sent them a reassurance, hoping they received it, but there had been no answer. The distance was simply too great. Severed from the collective, he had often felt very alone out here in space, and it had always given him a certain sorrow, although not untouched by the pride in the notion he was serving his colony, expanding their knowledge with his experiences. This night, however, he found himself almost thankful for the empty solitude, and the opportunity to consider his place in the nest, the universe, and this ship. In the silence, in this room with just her and his wakeful self on guard, he had at last had the peace he required to listen to the song that sang to him from his heart. It was a song unlike any he had heard before in the nest, where there were no personal feelings between individuals, but it was a song of joy and of hope, a song that chanted her quality in the verse and harmonized her life in the chorus. A song of love.

It silenced suddenly as a flicker in the aura in the bed caught his attention. Tendrils on unease, of discomfort, of sorrow tumbled forth, and before he had risen from the chair and crossed the room, these had erupted into blazes of terror, rage, and betrayal. Her body under the sheets tossed restlessly, and her small sound of fear jarred against his ears. He quickly reached down and shook her shoulder, gently at first, then with more urgency.

“Cipher,” he said, then, with greater insistence, “Cipher! Agent!” Then finally - “Paha!”

Two piercing points of wild red flared in the dim light as she awoke, disoriented and shaken.

“You were dreaming,” he reminded her.

Her aura settled itself quickly as she sat up and collected herself. “Yes... it wasn't pleasant. I don't generally have trouble with dreams.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” he inquired.

“No,” she answered, a little too quickly. There had been dreams since she confronted Jadus. She knew them for what they were: the sound of her conscience condemning her for her role in all those deaths. Condemning her for her failure, when there should have been another way, a better way. This, on the other hand, felt different. The thought of being controlled by Ardun Kothe and the Minister of Intelligence, and them using that control to destroy her, was unsettling, but was a natural result of her understandable obsessing. But what had that bit of Hunter pulling her strings meant? The interpretation was all too obvious, but he was nothing more than one of Kothe's team – wasn't he? Yet one more thing to look into; not that she placed any stock in dreams as prophetic omens, no matter what the superstitious Sith might say. A dream-sent vision of the future that included Vector leaving her – no, of her sending him away – was a prospect she found uncomfortable, so it was better to reject the whole thing as just a figment of her disordered brain than to entertain the notion that any part of it could be true. Still, she couldn't deny it had been a relief to find him here.

“Can we get you anything?” he offered.

“No,” she gave her negative more slowly this time as she lay back down. “I think I will just try to get back to sleep.”

“Very well,” he answered, and she was surprised when he pulled the desk chair beside the bed. “There are songs, in the nest, that are for sleep. Sometimes for the young. Sometimes for the ill. Sometimes for no reason at all. We will share these with you.”

Vector sat down, and without waiting for a reply, began a soft low hum, a gentle crooning sound that was almost hypnotic in its calming effect. It was an interesting sound, and she was curious to hear it all, but in spite of herself, she felt it pulling her down, the tension draining from her limbs, until she slipped over the border into peaceful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I like that the writers made it the Agent's love interest (Kaliyo or Vector) who finds the Agent passed out. Even if Kaliyo is her typical nonchalant self about it, it's still a nice touch. Sure, a touch with an emotional dagger, but, still.
> 
> 2\. The total awkwardness of FemAgent/Vector's early flirting is one of their relationship's most adorable appeals.
> 
> 3\. The most far-fetched part of this is that an Agent would give up the security codes to her own ship, even to her closest allied assets. I'm sure there was a good reason for it - locking down the ship in her absence, for example. There are probably different levels of security codes, anyway. ~hand-wavy reasons~


	3. Deceptions

“Don't go anywhere,” Cipher instructed Lokin and Kaliyo. “We're not staying long. Vector, you're with me.”

 

“As you wish, Agent,” Vector replied, inclining his head.

 

Kaliyo shrugged, indifferent to the decision, and not caring to ask. Kaas City was stuffy anyway, particularly the area around the Citadel. To her mind, half the people there were creeps, and the other half were Sith. On her part, Cipher needed someone with a little more discretion for this one.

 

“We are going to the Intelligence Archives,” Cipher informed Vector as they shuttled across the stretch of jungle between the city gate and the spaceport.

 

“Keeper couldn't send it by holo?” questioned Vector. “Even on a secure channel?”

 

A muddy ripple rolled indolently through her aura as she replied, “Evidently not. It is of an extremely sensitive nature. But I need it.” The shuttle glided to a stop in front of Intelligence Headquarters.

 

“If it is so critical, we will be glad to assist,” Vector replied, falling in step beside her as they crossed the plaza in front of the taxi stand. “However, we are not granted security clearance to the Archive area.”

 

“Never mind that,” Cipher answered. “You're with me, that's all the clearance you need. Follow my lead and stay by my side until we get to the Archive.”

 

Easily done, and Vector found another reason to be grateful for his altered nature: it gave him a perfect gambler's countenance. If he even had a tell that a human eye could discern, it would just be another eccentricity of the odd being Kaliyo called “Bugboy.” He stood quietly by, veiling his puzzlement, as Cipher glibly lied her way past Watchers and Minders, and was quick to step onto the elevator platform as soon as it arrived.

 

“One moment,” Cipher cautioned him. “I'll need to set the security protocols to permit you in.”

 

Vector could tell she wasn't being entirely truthful, but he trusted her, and, as she had asked, followed her lead. Cipher stepped into the next room, where, out of sight, it was a simple matter to trip the power generators that supported the security grid. It would take a few minutes for the monitor cameras to reactivate, and those few precious minutes would give her time to pull up the files on her life. She hoped it would be enough time. Of course, the downside of no cameras meant that the security droids would have kicked into a kill-anything-that-moves overdrive.

 

“All set,” she flashed a quick, mirthless smile at Vector and led the way down the hallway. As they turned the corner, they nearly ran straight into a trio of droids, each armed to the teeth and prepped to attack.

 

It was a short matter of work before the droids lay in pieces on the floor, and the alarmed voice of Watcher Three interrupted the sound of fading servo mechanisms. “Cipher Nine, are you down there? We seem to have had a power fluctuation, and it's tripped the security systems.”

 

“How inconvenient,” Cipher murmured, and Vector eyed her aura quizzically again. Unmistakable, this time, the signs that she was being deceitful, if not outright lying; he could read them even with ease. In her line of work, deception was a tool used more often than a rifle or a vibroblade, but to deceive her own handlers? Vector put his mind to work running down the possible reasons for such an act – an act that could get her labeled as a traitor, and him equally branded alongside her.

 

“Stay put, and we'll have it straightened out in no time,” Watcher Three assured.

 

Instead, Cipher turned and headed straight to one of the computer terminals. “Keep an eye out for more droids,” she advised him. Whatever it was she was looking for, it appeared she wanted to keep it a secret as much from him as from the Watchers upstairs. Was that for his protection, or for hers? He placed himself at the door, and monitored the hallway while he considered.

 

The first option: Cipher had changed her allegiance, and now was working for Kothe in truth. For Kothe to cultivate a mole within Imperial Intelligence would be a master stroke for him, and there would be no end to the havoc that could be wrought with the sensitive information that filled dozens of computer banks around him. If this were the case, then, as an Imperial citizen and diplomat, it was his duty to stop her, to turn her back from this traitorous course. A quick glance over his shoulder indicated she was watching a clip of a holo record, so she had presumably found... _something_. No, it was impossible. He would have sensed if her allegiance had changed – but what was that haze that had begun shrouding her aura of late? He shifted his weight uneasily, deeply apprehensive.

 

“Terminal power dropped out,” Cipher reported, appearing at his side so suddenly he nearly jumped. “There should be another in the next room.”

 

Vector took up his post at the door while she hurried to the second terminal, and he again could see the glow of a holovid she had called up. Well, perhaps she were not defecting for real. She might still need sensitive information in order to maintain her cover – in which case, his interference might very well cost them their lives. Kothe could have demanded something that Cipher knew would never be granted through regular channels, hence this extraordinary subterfuge, but without any intent to truly betray the Empire.

 

“That one is down, too,” Cipher said as she crossed the room and led the way into the hall. “I think I can get what I need if we can find just one more working terminal.”

 

Vector didn't answer, but stood in the doorway, deliberately turning his back to her and the terminal to prevent succumbing to the impulse of trying to observe the holovid across the room as she watched it. There was a third option: this was part of a personal mission, something unrelated to either the SIS or Ardun Kothe. But what could Imperial Intelligence have hidden here that would push Cipher to do something this reckless? What – or who – could be so important? Unless... it were Cipher herself? He was so used to the open sharing of the Killik hive that he was unexpectedly troubled by the idea that this was so crucial to keep hidden from him, whatever the mystery was. He shook himself, scolding himself for the notion that she was under any obligation to share _anything_ with him. Had he not just told her he would allow her her privacy? If this matter were this important to her, to the extent that she risked her career, her liberty, and her life, then he would keep still, support her, and do as he had pledged. She had trusted his judgment and backed his every decision regarding the Lost Colony and introducing the Killiks to the Empire; he owed her the same courtesy. If she wanted him to know, she would tell him.

 

Which made for one argument in favor of butting in, and two arguments for staying out of it. Majority ruled. Hearing her step beside him, he turned back to face her, condemning his desire to ask what she found as nothing more than the inveterate Killik curiosity, a trait that he found was all too human, as well.

 

“That's it,” she said. “All the terminals are down. There's nothing more I can learn here.”

 

Before he could answer, Watcher Three's voice fluttered back over Cipher's intercom. “This is Watcher Three to Cipher Nine. We've restored power. Please proceed to the exit.”

 

“Thanks, Watcher,” Cipher answered. She seemed satisfied, Vector noted, following her onto the elevator.

 

“Cipher, I'm so sorry,” Watcher Three said as they emerged onto the main floor of the Intelligence building. “Must have been a power surge, probably lightning. You're alright?”

 

“I'm fine, but your security droids got a little over-enthusiastic. I'm sorry about the mess,” Cipher replied.

 

“I see. I'll alert the Fixers. We've got spares. Look, I apologize for this, but we do need to hold you until this is cleared up. Nothing personal, but you were down there unmonitored, and... you know. Protocols.” Watcher sounded genuinely contrite.

 

“I understand – but the information I retrieved is truly vital to my mission, and time is of the essence,” Cipher nodded, all sympathy. “Besides – it's not like you wouldn't know where to find me. If you have any questions, just call me back in, and I'll be happy to answer whatever you like.” It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't fully honest, Vector decided. She really had no problem with coming back for questioning – in a way, it was almost like she wanted it to happen. So what was it that was the wellspring of all this obfuscation and subterfuge? The mystery deepened instead of clarifying.

 

As they turned away from Watcher Three and headed for the exit, Vector, in a low voice, uttered, “It is fortunate you were able to get the information you needed. That lightning strike was particularly poorly timed.”

 

Cipher give him a quick searching look. Had Vector relearned the keenly human art of deadpan humor? There were no answers in his carefully blank face.

 

“Indeed,” she agreed.

 

\- - - -

 

Cipher Nine and Vector stepped through the airlock onto the orbital station around Quesh. Her hard-earned information from the Intelligence Archives had led her here: the mining planet that supplied the chemicals the Empire used to alter and control its subjects – among them, evidently, Cipher agents that were considered too powerful for the Empire's own good. In her head, in the Archives, Watcher X had made an apt, if snide, observation: in taking down the Sith Lord Jadus, she had done not only the unthinkable, but the impossible – and she had done it too well.

 

 _They feared you, and your power. Your reward,_ Watcher X explained, _was your leash._

 

But Quesh's chemical factories promised to hold the knife that would cut that leash.

 

It was not, Paha felt sincerely, old Keeper's fault. It was clear that the Dark Council had left him with no choice. In his shoes, faced with just the same options and prospects before her, she would have done the same. She saw the ineffable, brutal logic of the decision, and would not cower behind some absurd notion of the sacrosanctity of autonomy being necessarily equivalent across all individuals. Some entities, she knew, must be controlled. Apparently, the Sith felt that she fell into that category, and it would have done the old Keeper no favors to countermand it, and might have cost him his promotion – or worse – to do so, and then he would have been in no position to direct or help anybody, least of all herself. Watcher X was less forgiving about it.

 

And of course, her acceptance of Keeper's decision didn't mean any the less that she would not do her utmost to break the hold the codeword held over her. If nothing else, the discovery that the Republic SIS had knowledge of the programming, and the wherewithal to use it on her, were sufficient reasons. Who knows what Ardun Kothe might force her to do against herself or against the Empire before she broke his grip?

 

Understandably, the Imperial personnel – poor bastards, whatever they had done, to be stuck on this world – were mystified by the appearance of Imperial Intelligence in their midst, and it took some time being shuffled between low-rank officers to deal with the necessary paperwork and injections to stave off the effects of the pollution-riddled world. Finalization of their clearance came with an option to check in with Moff Dracen regarding the skirmishes against the Republic troops planetside, along with a reference to a Major Kaita who coordinated supply-side management at the Imperial base on the planet below, and who seemed eager to meet them. Cipher bore each delay with a tolerable appearance of patience that she did not inwardly share, but at last they were on board the enclosed shuttle and headed to the planet's surface.

 

Vector had never been to Quesh before, and he was struck by its eerie, unsettling beauty. The sky was painted stunning shades of rust and vermillion, boasting noxious olive clouds of pollution that glowed wanly under the sickly light of a tepid sun. He commented on it, turning to Cipher as he did so, and pulled up short. She was standing frozen in the doorway on the shuttle's exit ramp, her eyes fixed on the violent sky and her aura crackling with alarm and fear.

 

“Agent?” he prompted her.

 

She caught herself staring, and quickly jerked her eyes towards him. “I'm ready,” she said, forestalling his question. “Let's go.” As she strode down the ramp past him, she had evidently mastered whatever it was that had bothered her, but she clearly still unmistakably bore marks of wariness and unease. Vector placed the information in the back of his head, alongside the other evidence in the box marked “Paha's Mystery,” and fell into step behind her.

 

 _How here_? Paha wondered. _How could I have dreamed of a planet I have never set foot on, or even seen in a holovid?_ It was identical, down to the metallic tang of the air and the scent of toxicity that suffused the brittle, blighted plants. And if the planet from her nightmare was real, did that mean the droids were real? That Hunter's manipulations were, too? Would this be the day that she sent Vector away while she fell under the onslaught of war droids?

 

Cipher pushed away the questions that had no resolutions as they entered Major Kaita's office. He was older than she expected, and she figured he was either an ineffective officer or had fallen afoul of some powerful figure to have been dumped here and left unpromoted. He was a small man, with a slightly wasted appearance, too thin for someone she had assumed would be a fighting condition.

 

There was the usual exchange of courtesies, and Cipher went straight into requesting the location of Kroius, the administrator of the chemical supply depot. He was the most likely candidate to supply her with what she needed to recreate the serum that had been used to brainwash her, and which, hopefully, had the potential to overwrite it again. Kaita, as the officer in charge of planetary logistics, was the key to tracking down Kroius.

 

Major Kaita hesitated. “Cipher, I was wondering if, in exchange for this information, you might be able to handle a little – a very little – task for me.”

 

As tempting as it was to threaten Kaita to get the information out of him, there was the risk that he would call her bluff; he looked rather wretched enough to do just that. She would then look the fool, for the last thing she needed was an investigation team dogging her heels, labeling her as a rogue agent. Far better to keep things as much a secret as long as possible. She narrowed her eyes skeptically.

 

“I won't accept a job without knowing what it is, first,” she answered.

 

“Fair enough, fair enough,” Kaita hastened to reassure her. “It's a small matter. I'm afraid my idiot son has done something colossally foolish. He's far too fond of sabaac, and he's gone and – and gambled away the title to his ship.” Kaita's sunken cheeks flushed red. “I know, I know, I shouldn't help him out of this scrape. I should let him take his lumps. But... he is my only son. A father can't help it, even out here.”

 

A father, Cipher surmised, that seemed to be taking lumps for his son already, perhaps. A child's stupidity had ruined the career of more than one Imperial officer.

 

“Who has it?” she inquired.

 

“A no-good guy, a very no-good guy. His name is Caldin. He keeps a cantina and gambling den about one click east of the base. It's a popular spot with the men; he keeps a flophouse in the back. There isn't much in the way of entertainment here.” The Major sounded almost apologetic.

 

“Why don't you just buy it back?” she asked sensibly.

 

“I've tried, I've tried!” the miserable Major answered. He seemed to have a verbal tic of repeating himself, and Cipher hoped that it wasn't something that came about from acute exposure to Quesh's toxin-laden atmosphere. “I have the credits, all readily available. I've offered the price of the ship plus twenty-five percent, and it's no use.”

 

“And I take it you'd rather not use your men on a personal errand?”

 

“Exactly so, exactly so!” Major Kaita exclaimed. “I can't spend men on something so embarrassing; and Caldin keeps a very good enforcer squad there. It can get rough, quite rough. I'd just as soon not have to tell Imperial command that I got men killed in a bar brawl to fix my son's stupidity. And Caldin has ties to the Hutt Cartels. I can't afford to offend him and antagonize the Hutts. It will be my hide, my hide instead of my job, then! Please, Agent, you are the first option I've had that has a chance at straightening this out. While you take care of it, I'll track down Kroius. He has many labs, many many labs. He may be at any of them.”

 

Cipher sighed, irritated at the Major's whining. His idiot son might have had a role to play in getting his father stationed in this miserable place, but Major Kaita certainly didn't bother doing himself any favors. No wonder he had to beg them from others.

 

“Fine,” she said at last. “I'll need a tactical overview of his place, blueprints if you've got them. I'll need to know the locations of his safes, and where he might keep his important papers. What kind of forces does he have, and how are they armed?”

 

“Oh, no need for all that, no need!” Kaita answered, holding up his hands deprecatingly. “I have had a plan already worked out, I just didn't have someone who could pull it off. Instead of an assault, you can infiltrate his place easily, very easily. Caldin has a taste for exotic women. You present an opportunity, an unprecedented opportunity. You are the first exotic woman to come through this place in months, maybe longer. All you have to do is have your associate there present you as a new girl for his place, and that's it, that's it, you're in.”

 

Cipher eyed the Major silently for a long moment, and Vector couldn't imagine that even human eyes would be unable to see the rage boiling off her.

 

“I sincerely hope,” she said with a deceptive calm, “for both our sakes, that you are joking.”

 

“Not at all, not at all! It's a foolproof plan!” The Major was evidently more blind than Vector had given him credit for. “The title is in a safe behind the desk in his office. I saw him put it there the last time I tried to buy it back. And here, to keep him happy, here is a credit stick; just leave this in place of the title. What good does the money do me out here, way out here? There's nothing to buy, nothing. I'm not averse to him having something to show for it, he won it fair and square. I just want the title back.”

 

Sure, it sounded simple enough. And getting Kroius' location directly from Kaita was a far sight faster than searching half the planet lab-by-lab herself. She wasn't sure how much time she had, either – had Imperial Intelligence discovered the extent of her activities in the Archives? She could only assume they had. She closed her eyes briefly, already disbelieving the words that were about to come out of her mouth, then opened them as she steeled her nerve.

 

“Okay,” she said at last. “Okay, I'll do it.” That had better not be the beginnings of Kaita's verbal tic she heard in her own voice.

 

“Splendid! Splendid!” Kaita was fairly beside himself. “Thank you, Agent, thank you! Wait, where are you going?”

 

Cipher paused and looked back. “To Caldin's, of course,” she answered. “Where else would I be going?”

 

“But you can't like that, not like that,” Major Kaita stammered anxiously. “You have to look the part.”

 

“The part,” it turned out, consisted of a skimpy, midriff-bearing top and a long dancer's skirt made of a filmy, clinging material and cut up the sides to her hip. The outfit was topped off with a long sinuous scarf of gauze, a beaded filigree headdress that dangled gems – fake ones, she noted – down to her shoulders, and metal bangles that circled her wrists and feet, jingling musically as she walked. Ensign Maizel of Kaita's staff brought her the diaphanous pile of fabric and hesitantly asked if there were anything else she could do. Paha, looking around at the storage closet she was using as her dressing room, toyed with the idea of asking her to gut her boss to save herself the trouble of it, but, in the end, settled for requesting a long cloak to wear for the journey.

 

Slipping her feet into the ridiculously flimsy slippers, and already regretting the loss of traction normally afforded her by her sturdy boots, Cipher gritted her teeth against her anger and stepped out of the closet. She ignored the Major's gushing – “Capital! Capital!” – and paused as she stalked past Vector, who became abruptly aware that his mouth was open.

 

Cipher held up her hand, index finger extended. “One word, Vector,” she warned. “ _One. Word_.”

 

It was a pointless prohibition, Vector mused. He couldn't have made a sound had he wanted to. Ensign Maizel offered a whispered “Good luck,” and handed her the cloak, at least twice more fabric than the absurd costume she was wearing and certainly three times more durable.

 

“You'll have to leave your arms on the speeder,” Kaita advised as Vector seated himself in the driver's position. “A slave girl can't go gadding about with a sniper rifle!”

 

“Very well,” Cipher replied coldly. “But the vibroblade stays with me.” The scabbard was strapped to her thigh, entirely and boldly visible on her bare leg as she slid into the speeder perch behind Vector. She tucked the cloak securely around herself, then grabbed his waist.

 

“But the guards! The guards will never let you in!” Kaita was practically on the verge of wringing his bony hands.

 

Cipher stuck her nose in the air. “Then they will have to explain to their boss why they have deprived him of the opportunity to see a Chiss dagger dance,” she returned loftily. “Vector, let's go.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I tend to use "Cipher" or "Agent" when my main character is acting in her official capacities; Paha is, obviously, more personal. Vector tailors his thoughts of her in the same way.
> 
> 2\. One of the few issues I had with the Agent story line was how Kothe or Hunter sometimes used the trigger word while the Agent's companion was standing RIGHT THERE. How would the companion not have clued in to something going on? I was very glad the writers had the companion stand in the hallway during the Archive scene, as it would have made that relatively minor plot hole big enough to pilot a star destroyer through. Meanwhile, Agent's behavior during this scene would have been raising massive red flags for any companion loyal to the Empire.
> 
> 3\. Major Kaita and the entire cantina episode are purely my invention. No, you didn't miss a side quest on Quesh; I actually missed most of the side quests on Quesh, since I was so hooked on the class story line.
> 
> 4\. Quesh is in Hutt space, so yeah, it's got to have ties to the Hutt Cartels.
> 
> 5\. The first time I read H.P. Lovecraft's "The Color Out of Space," I found his descriptions of the effect of the alien presence on the surrounding countryside to be very haunting. Most particularly effective was how the plant life, after growing to large size and brilliant oversaturated color, turned brittle and grey. Ever since, I can think of no better word to describe disturbing, sickly foliage than "brittle." I'm trying to avoid over-using it in regards to Quesh, but it I think it decidedly apt.


	4. Caldin's Cantina

Vector had never seen a Chiss dagger dance, either, but he didn't know much about the Chiss culture, other than it was fairly isolationist. There were not, certainly, many Chiss in the Imperial military, and even fewer in Intelligence. He had met a handful through the diplomatic work of his former life, but those had been very casual professional contacts. For all he knew, a Chiss dagger dance was something Cipher intended to make up on the spot.

 

Despite his forces, Caldin didn't seem to know much about security. Perhaps, on a planet like this, the presence of a goon squad was sufficient to deter any trouble. Perhaps they had been instructed to offer courtesy to slave traders with potentially valuable girls. In any event, the guards didn't do more than offer a token protest at his electrostaff and her vibroblade.

 

Cipher was reluctant to admit it, but Kaita's plan had been a good one. At the sight of her, they had been ushered straight in and announced to Caldin, an overstuffed human in a suit that gave new meaning to the word ostentatious. He was clearly used to high living, and sat on a plush couch to preside over his pleasure palace of vice, in fine Hutt style. He sat up and took notice promptly as they entered, and Vector stepped forward with his rehearsed lines, offering Paha up for Caldin's inspection, approval, and purchase. Her red eyes glittered darkly from within the cave of the cloak's hood, intriguing the gangster.

 

“Such a treasure as this,” gushed Caldin, suspicious in spite of his eagerness, “you could fetch many credits for her on Nar Shaddaa. Why bring her here?”

 

“Alas, we are not well liked there,” Vector replied. “It is our shame. We know you hold favor with the Hutt Cartels. We are not greedy; we are willing to accept a heavy discount, should the difference be made up with some friendly words spoken in the right ears.”

 

“I understand entirely; say no more!” the gangster chortled, enjoying the thought that so fine a slave was offered so cheaply, as well as the notion that he had the power to shape this trader's future. How gullible this odd black-eyed fool! He hoisted his bulk from his couch, and stepped closer to inspect his prospective purchase.

 

“Well, then, what are you?” he inquired, circling around her. “Let's see more of you!”

 

Paha's blue arms were luminescent under the red and gold glow of the decadent lamps that swung slightly overhead as she raised her hands and drew back the hood, carefully keeping her face demurely bowed. Vector, turning to lift the cloak from her shoulders, noted the purple spots of color high in her cheeks and wondered which of the colors that flickered through her aura – the anger or the embarrassment – were most directly the cause. Paha had no such cues, but some part of her brain diverted itself debating whether or not there was the slightest of tremors in his normally steady hands as he took the cloak.

 

“Very nice, very clean, very well cared for. You've been treated well, haven't you?” Caldin nodded appreciatively, taking his time in the looking. His pudgy fingers gripped her chin and squeezed her jaw, forcing her mouth open, and he peered inside. “All her teeth in wonderful condition.” Paha recognized that he was looking for tell-tale signs of spice use. Users looking to hide a habit sometimes took to injecting into the gum tissue. He pushed her mouth shut and ran the nail of a single finger down her chin, along her throat to trace her collarbone, then reached down and pulled aside a fold of the skirt to take a lingering look at her bare legs. Paha had kept her face meticulously still, but nonetheless was unable to suppress an angry flash in her eye when Caldin snaked a hand under the flimsy material to pinch her bottom.

 

“And a defiant streak! Always good to have a little fight in them, right?” he snickered again and nodded significantly at Vector, who was beginning to tally how many guards he felt he would be able to take out when Cipher snapped, followed by the reflection that it was entirely likely that he would be the one who broke first. There was nothing about this mission that he liked, and although every inch of her aura indicated Cipher clearly liked it even less, she maintained her cover in a way he couldn't help but admire. He was unable to fathom how Paha was enduring the mortification of this inspection with such an outward calm – he felt completely humiliated on her behalf, and could have beaten the man within an inch of his life if he thought he could get away with it. Vector pushed away all he had been trying to relearn, and allowed his most inhuman expression of indifference compose his face.

 

“So far, so excellent!” Caldin stepped back and rubbed his fat hands together gleefully. “Well, then, what can you do? A pretty face is fine enough when you're new, but you need to offer more than that.”

 

Cipher bowed low at the waist, the paste gems brushing her cheeks and shoulders as she answered, “I dance, honorable sir.” Vector was intrigued to note that she had changed her accent. Most of the time, she talked impeccable basic with a refined Imperial accent that passed for native. When a mission required it, she easily slid into the hard rhotic edges and flattened vowels of the Republic. Her voice now employed neither of these, nor either did it rise and fall in the dipping Huttese lilt many a slave woman used; he reflected that she was perhaps coloring her tone with the Chenuh accent of her home world of Csilla. It was said that it was an extraordinarily difficult language for most outsiders to learn, and worse for them to pronounce, and Vector made a mental note to ask Cipher to demonstrate a phrase or two of it to him later, assuming they ever had time for another quiet conversation on board the _Phantom._ Caldin, settling his ponderous body again on his lounger, waved his hand in a gesture to indicate she should proceed.

 

Paha danced. The bracelets chimed musically with each turn, the skirt swirled about her bare legs with each pivot, and the scarf floated floated ethereally behind her, like the tail of some dainty comet, as she wove her arms in graceful patterns, tracing airy designs with the vibroblade in her hand. Caldin was breathless and captivated, openly ogling, yet never noticing that this dancing slave girl used her every motion to take careful note of all doors, corridors, guards, and weapons that were visible from this room. Based on the information Kaita had given her, she identified the door that led to Caldin's inner office, the location of his desk and the safe that held the needed document.

 

“You have yourself a deal!” Caldin proclaimed pompously, not even waiting for the end of the performance. “I _must_ have her!”

 

Vector was nearly startled at the exclamation; he had not anticipated that this display would entrance him nearly as much as it did their mark, and he certainly had not been prepared for it. Over the rather tawdry music that churned out of the establishment's jukebox, he heard an entirely different song, and at a time when he knew it critical for his Killik nature to help him maintain his impassivity he had the notion that he could not recall the last time he had felt quite this human. He was almost instantly ashamed that any part of him found even the remotest enjoyment in something that she must be thinking utterly degrading.

 

“We are overjoyed,” Vector replied, bowing low and considering it was well that he had at least somewhat recovered the human skill for lying, although untested until now.

 

“This way,” Caldin rose again, and, to Cipher's satisfaction, he led the way through the door she had correctly guessed led to the office. This would be even easier than she had expected. “My office is more suitable for finalizing transactions. You know, party in the front, business in the back,” he giggled at his own joke, and then motioned for Paha to remain where she stood. “You wait here, my dear, and let the men talk.”

 

Before Cipher could react, Vector interposed quickly. “Apologies, great Caldin, but we remain together until the sale is final. Policies can be inconvenient things, but we must abide by them.”

 

Caldin's good mood made him generous. And, Cipher thought, also stupid, fortunately. “Of course, come along then. You might as well get acquainted with the space.”

 

That rather cryptic comment was clarified a moment later, where Caldin's office was revealed to double as a sort of personal pleasure room, with a number of couches, daybeds, and oddly-shaped chairs scattered about the room, covered in dingy pillows and gaudy draperies. In truth, the only thing businesslike about the office was the desk placed in the center. Clearly, Caldin expected his newest asset would be spending a certain amount of time here, and he gestured her towards one of the couches nearest the desk. Wholly disgusted, Paha surreptitiously drew one of the draperies across the stained surface before perching as far on the edge of the cushion as possible.

 

Now that the chance had come, it was all over in a matter of heartbeats. Caldin, chattering on and complacent, turned to open the safe, and Cipher was quick to recognize the opportunity. Stunned and stupid, Caldin lay face down on the floor, wondering how he had ended up there with the point of a slave girl's vibroblade dug painfully into the back of his neck. If he squirmed, or raised his head, it would be all that was necessary for that dagger to be driven through his spinal column.

 

“You are fortunate,” Cipher said. “Your death isn't necessary; in fact, I have been instructed to ensure you remain alive and in business. The only thing required of you is to accept this credit stick in exchange for a certain document regarding a ship's deed that changed hands during a game of sabaac. I doubt that you have many such, or that it has slipped your mind.”

 

“Kaita's brat?” Caldin gasped, incredulously, his voice squeaking. “That's what this is about?”

 

“You seem to think that there is a possibility that this might be about something else. That is an interesting idea,” Cipher answered, all trace of the Chenuh accent gone. Her voice was staunchly High Imperial. “And – ” she paused, blinking as an acrid scent struck her nose. “Did you just urinate yourself? Disgusting.”

 

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry!” Caldin whined, trembling. “Please let me up!”

 

Cipher laughed coldly. “Not a chance. You are just going to have to lie in it until I'm done with you. What is it you are so scared of?”

 

“Nothing!” Caldin's lie was obvious. At a nod of Cipher's head, Vector removed the contents of the safe. Much of it was expected: credit sticks, loose contraband of various values, deeds and documents proving ownership or for blackmail purposes, and –

 

“A datapad.” Vector looked down at Caldin's cringing form as he picked it up. He scrolled through it quickly. “It appears that Caldin has been misreporting his profits to his Hutt superiors.”

 

“Cheating a Hutt?” Cipher admonished mockingly. “They won't be happy to hear of that. But I'm sure we can come to an arrangement.”

 

“Take the title! Take the damn title!” Caldin howled. “It's not even worth that much anyway!”

 

“I'm glad to see that you are a reasonable man, Caldin,” Cipher approved. “Reason is always good for business. It is a pity – for you – that you did not see the reasonableness of Major Kaita's initial offer. I am returning not only the title to him, but the credits he authorized us to leave on his behalf, in payment. As for me, I don't think I can be bothered to remember the trivial details of your finances. I think you will be satisfied with this solution, yes? Good.”

 

Leaving Caldin sniveling on the floor, Cipher and Vector were just returning to their speeder when a side door of the cantina opened and half a dozen Gamorreans of Caldin's goon squad came boiling out. Cipher sighed.

 

“Always the hard way,” she grimaced to Vector, seizing her rifle from the speeder. She dropped to one bare knee and raised the weapon to peer through the sight. “Why, always the hard way?”

 

Vector shook his head in response, swinging his electrostaff down from his shoulder as the foremost thug dropped to the ground, felled by a single blaster bolt to the head. A second bolt zinged past his face as he charged in unflinchingly, without the slightest doubt in Cipher's marksmanship, and a second enforcer lay stretched on the ground not far from the first. It was hardly even worth classifying it as a fight. Cipher stood up and strode over to where Vector had cornered the last Gamorrean, and took aim squarely at his forehead.

 

“I advise you to return to your boss and remind him that we had a deal,” she said flatly. “I intend to honor my end of it despite his bad faith. Let him know that my patience and my forgiveness has its limits, and he is perilously close to them, regardless of Major Kaita's request for clemency.”

 

The thug scrambled hastily back into the cantina, and Cipher shouldered her rifle.

 

“Everything about this mission,” she said as they returned to the speeder, “has been weird.”

 

The strong emotions he had sensed from her were gone, but in their place Vector noticed that that dull diminished look to her aura was returning. The haze had faded under the power of her valiant anger or the focus on this little diversion, but it had not been enough to drive it away permanently. Vector, securing their weapons to the speeder, risked a glance in her direction, hoping not to stare. A faint, chemical-scented breeze fluttered the ridiculous skirt around her bare legs, and the beaded drops of the headdress swung freely as she gave a small shake of her head.

 

“We agree,” he said, quickly looking back down at the speeder. He stooped and picked up the cloak where it had fallen at the first sign of trouble, and held it out to her. “Although perhaps not for the same reasons.”

 

Paha flushed slightly, recalling the absurd getup in which she was clad and considering for the first time that it might be as bothersome to him as it was to her. She hastily took the proffered cloak and fastened it about her neck.

 

“We are not,” Vector explained, “accustomed to the act of trading the lives of others. Particularly the lives of friends.”

 

Ah. Right. Paha felt unexpectedly disappointed, but unable to pin down a cause as to why, most especially when she considered how noble a reason it was that Vector gave. He sensed a trickle of change in her aura that flickered by too swiftly for him to identify.

 

“And we imagine that this is a rather similarly uncomfortable change in status for you, as well,” he added, generously giving her a cover as he changed the subject. “But we were wondering, is there such a thing as a Chiss dagger dance?”

 

Cipher gave a short chuckle, an unexpected sound. “Sort of,” she answered. “I mean, I have heard that there is, but I've never seen it done.”

 

“Then you _did_ make that up on the spot? We _are_ impressed. Is it not often performed?” Vector's interest in other cultures would never diminish, no matter what the universe made him.

 

“I have no idea,” Paha replied. Seeing the confused look on his face, she added, “Vector, I haven't been among my people in ages. I haven't set foot on Csilla since I was six years old. Honestly, there is quite a lot about Chiss life that I am wholly ignorant of.”

 

Vector was taken aback. “We were unaware of this, Agent. Your family were colonists?” He was familiar with the Chiss Ascendancy's recent forays into expansionism; some in the diplomatic service had grumbled that it was a tacit challenge to the Empire from an upstart alien race, but the Chiss had carefully refrained from jeopardizing their relationship with their Imperial allies.

 

“No,” Cipher corrected, sitting on the speeder and tucking in the loose ends of the cloak. “We were exiles. Let's get out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. It wasn't until after it was written that, to my personal chagrin, I found I had fallen into the "fat guy = evil pervert" trope. But he really is just a self-important guy who fancies himself a Hutt. Legit, he just dreams of being a space slug, in every possible way. But I'm sorry to perpetuate a stereotype. I'll try to do better.
> 
> 2\. Caldin's response to pressure draws some inspiration from a real-life story. For a while before we met, my husband worked in law enforcement as a private investigator. At one point, he had to borrow his boss's Audi to drive into a rich neighborhood and pick up an older gentleman who was refusing to appear at multiple court dates he had been summoned to. This gentleman was so angry at having been caught that he decided to pee himself and all over the back seat of the car in revenge. My husband's response was to shrug and let him sit in his urine-soaked pants as he turned him over to the officials and tell him he was lucky he wasn't going to dun him for the cost of getting the car detailed.
> 
> 3\. In general, the companions don't have overmuch to do with the class story line missions, in order to ensure that events progress on track regardless of which companion is with the character. They are largely around to offer combat support of some variety; however, at this point, any companion who has spent time with the Agent would likely be expected to be able to maintain a cover to ensure mission success. Also, from a purely *squee* standpoint, Vector is clearly attracted to Agent's intelligence and capabilities - but he could use some encouragement on the physical side of things.


	5. Creeps on Quesh

It was not until much later, after they had left Kroius' lab, that Vector ventured to broach the subject again. Cipher was glad to be back in her uniform, and Vector was glad for her, although he couldn't deny that he spent the ride back to Major Kaita's office meticulously securing in his mind's eye the sight of Paha dancing, her limbs bare and the gauzy costume floating about her. In spite of the circumstances, her grace and beauty, no less than her quick thinking and lightness on her feet, were dazzling.

 

Kroius was a vile specimen – openly experimenting on live subjects, utterly immoral, and nastily subservient. Cipher strongly considered killing him, as Watcher X urged her to do, but reflected that he would just be replaced with someone just as bad, or worse, and the removal of a known entity in the galaxy-spanning equation Intelligence had set up would introduce countless unknown variables. On a more personal consideration, if the serum was unsuccessful, she might have no choice but to request his assistance a second time, loath as she was to consider the possibility.

 

The necessary equipment to synthesize the serum was in another lab, and Cipher was headed there now with the reagents. She was as much on edge now than ever before, so close as she was now to breaking the hold the brainwashing held on her, and she wondered if each step brought her closer to the disturbing visions from her dream – and Vector could sense her unease. He debated bringing up a personal matter; would it distract her? Or would it serve to refocus her jittery nerves?

 

They had taken the speeder as far as they could, but the last leg of the journey required a trek through an industrial complex where the corridors were too narrow and the corners too sharp to safely maneuver. They left the speeder behind and continued on foot.

 

“Agent, do you mind very much if we inquire about your family?” Vector asked finally, tossing the debate to the wind.

 

“I already told you I don't have one,” Cipher said, her voice neutral. She didn't look back at him. She was warily alert to possible danger ahead, but was also scanning for any indication that this location was anything like that she had dreamed. She added, “But sure, go ahead.”

 

She didn't seem to resent the question, at least, although she didn't seem to exactly welcome it, no matter what her last words were.

 

“We do not know much about Chiss customs... you mentioned exile?”

 

“Criminals are not put to death on Csilla as they are in the Empire,” Cipher explained. “Instead they are driven out of Chiss society, never to be re-admitted. For crimes of great severity, the entire family is exiled. It is the worst punishment there is.” She pulled up short, and looked back at him, suddenly thoughtful. “Actually, it occurs to me that among all the humans of the Empire, you, perhaps, are the best suited – maybe the only one at all suited – to understand this.”

 

Vector nodded slowly. “To be expelled from the Nest – it is very rare. Most individuals of the hive will not survive long without the contact of their brethren. The few that do descend into madness. We do understand this punishment. This is what happened to your people?”

 

“Yes,” Cipher turned away and started walking again. “I don't even know what the crime was. They would never tell me. Something my grandfather did. One day we were happy, and the next, we were on a shuttle, never to return, our name and land both stripped from us. I remember my mother crying as she watched Csilla fade behind us out the shuttle porthole. My father had already been killed – he had been an engineer on a trade vessel that ran into some raiders, years earlier, so he was spared our fall. My grandfather became a suicide. My grandmother was lucky in that she lost her mind from her age. She could not remember our shame from one day to the next, and we let her die happy in ignorance when her time came. There were others with us, but over the years, they either died or went off on their own, and I never saw them again. My mother worked hard to finish my education, but she, too, eventually succumbed. By the time I was twelve, I was the only one left. But I was very nearly an adult, and I knew how to make myself useful. I learned to shoot; I took a new family name; I originally thought to become a bounty hunter.”

 

“How did you end up in Imperial Intelligence, then?” Vector asked, fascinated.

 

“I was arrested for poaching vine cats on a nobleman's park on Dromund Kaas. They didn't believe me that I was working alone until I proved my skill in a shot-by-shot contest with the local company sharpshooter. I beat him eighteen shots to his fourteen.” She tried not to sound too proud. “Out of twenty. On a timer. With moving targets. They presented me to the Imperial military then.”

 

“So this is how you have spent most of your life among humans?”

 

“Yes. Which is,” she added, bemused, “honestly, why Kaita's little errand here was so strange.”

 

“We are afraid we don't see the connection.”

 

“I've been around humans more than long enough to know what a typical human thinks of a Chiss,” Paha said, glancing back over her shoulder at her companion and slowing her pace again. This was going to be awkward to explain, she realized belatedly, but she had already begun, and Vector's natural curiosity deserved an answer. “First, there is the fact that, as aliens, we are second-class citizens to humans and Sith. Chiss may be considered the best of the alien races, but we are still considered inferior. Have you ever noticed that often, people assured of their superiority don't mind what they say around those they think are their inferiors? At least, those who are most insecure and petty don't.”

 

“Yes,” Vector agreed. “We noticed something of the sort after Joining. The comments. The looks. The alienation. The...”

 

“Disgust?” Paha supplied, her footsteps drew to a stop, and she turned to face him. “For a Chiss, and, I daresay, for the bulk of the alien races among the Empire, that is what daily life is like, on a good day, anyway. Most of the time, it's generally worse. The exception is for those like me, who have valuable skills, skills somehow useful enough to the Empire to make us respected, or, at the very least, feared. And even though my uniform marks me as someone with those skills, it _still_ doesn't make me exempt from the comments, and I have heard them, or overheard them, plenty. And then, if an alien can't be useful, the next best route to a tolerable life is to at least be entertaining. Twi'leks, for example, seem to be naturally good at that.”

 

“We do somewhat recall,” Vector nodded, “many in both the military and the diplomatic service often patronizing establishments with Twi'lek personnel as dancers. We have observed this, as well, in our visits with you to Nar Shaddaa and elsewhere.”

 

“And I tell you nothing you don't already know when I observe that Twi'leks are physically very different from humans. Humans have hair on their heads. Twi'leks have lekku. Human skin is of a limited palette. A group of Twi'leks might as well be a bag of flower confetti from a dozen different worlds. Many Twi'leks have conical ears, while all human ears are flat. And yet, over and over, I hear humans – well, honestly, human men, mostly – go into raptures over Twi'lek women. In contrast, the Chiss are described as creepy. We are off-putting. But,” Paha raised her shoulders, a gesture of the futility of working out the reasoning, “we look more human-like than a Twi'lek does. We have hair; we have the same flat ears. Our skin color is different, yes, but less so than the many colors of the Twi'lek kind, colors I have often heard described as appealing. As _sexy_ ,” Paha added, at last arriving to the point she had been drawing circuitously closer to.

 

“A human will find blue skin sexy in a Twi'lek, but this consideration does not extend to a Chiss, although we are more physically similar to humans than a Twi'lek is,” Paha said, and tilted her head to one side, her face thoughtful and without bitterness. “I can only assume the issue comes down to our eyes. Twi'leks have human-like eyes. Chiss of course do not. It seems that the differences between human eyes and Chiss eyes are not to be overcome as easily as all the many physical differences between humans and the Twi'lek, or maybe even some of the other more radically different races. It's as if the Chiss are mired in a sort of uncanny valley, neither human enough to be wholly accepted, nor alien enough to be intriguing. Do you know – there are scientists who postulate that the Chiss are an offshoot of an earlier lineage of humans, making the races even more closely related? But humans find us repulsive.”

 

She paused a brief moment, then clarified, “Human men have found _me_ repulsive.”

 

Vector was speechless, mute from the revelation and the dozens of thoughts that raced through his head. He understood immediately the sort of treatment she had described: as a Joiner, he was aware he had lost a sort of status of purity among the humans of the Empire, but it was only since leaving the Nest that he had learned how swiftly and cruelly others judged him purely upon the unusual appearance of his altered eyes; Kaliyo seemed to never miss an opportunity to comment on them, come to think of it. He had endured this for a comparatively short time in his life relative to Paha, for whom it was a routine fact of her existence, and, at that, without the comfort or respite of a welcoming family or clan, as he had in the Nest. Again, the empathetic sense of unbearable loneliness swept through him, more profound now that he had learned that she was not only without any kith or kin, but was disowned even from her whole race through actions she never was made aware of, let alone could be considered responsible for. Was there ever an existence more sorrowfully solitary than hers? Since the exile and death of her family, she had been forever among humankind and yet despised by the main part of them, scorned and discarded on the basis of mere physical traits – many of the same traits, he realized, that prompted others to reject him so easily now. How narrow a view did the spectacles of bigotry offer! It was a reminder of why he had joined the diplomatic corps in the first place – not to exploit other worlds, but to unite them.

 

Her admission brought new and terrible clarity to her automatic defensiveness when she had been forced to don that dancer's outfit, a personal consideration quite apart from the general degradation of appearing as a slave. She had agreed to wear that, all the while expecting that she would be disdained and spurned for attempting to appear as something she was sure she was not: attractive. He wanted to tell her that she was wrong. He wanted to tell her that he was a human man – half-human, anyway – who found her the total antithesis of repulsive; in truth, he found her glorious. He wanted to tell her he couldn't think of another woman in all their travels through the galaxy that was more beautiful than she. But his diplomat's gift failed him, and he missed his opening as Paha continued.

 

“Kaita described Caldin as having a taste for exotic women. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, 'exotic' means 'Twi'lek,' so I was prepared for his disappointment. And yet, he seemed...” Paha paused, musing, “...genuinely excited to see me. Utterly despicable, of course, and I'm rather sorry I was forced to let him live – but genuinely excited. It was strangely novel, and very bizarre. Although,” she reflected, “I suppose I shouldn't give it too much credence. The man was clearly a pervert.”

 

“Clearly,” Vector agreed, his voice tight. Was this, he wondered, why she had never repeated her earlier offer? He was aware he had pulled away, focusing as closely as possible on rebuilding the human aspects of his dual nature with the hope of being able to offer himself to her as a more complete person than what he had been. But she had pulled away, too, with no more of the tentative and slightly-awkward flirtations she had thrown out with too-studied casualness when they had first met. He had been awkward also, he recalled, far more awkward, in fact, and had been clumsy in his responses. What had she thought of that? What did she think now?

 

Certainly, she trusted him. He thought of her accompanying him to the celebration of the Lost Colony, to her openness and honesty then; he thought of her allowing him to keep watch in her room that recent night; he thought of how often they fought side-by-side in their busy moments and how they talked side-by-side in the cargo hold during their quiet ones; he thought of how she confided in him these tiny glimpses of her history and her soul, and he amended his assessment. She trusted him _profoundly._ Was that it, the entire depth and breadth of her regard for him? Or was she simply giving him space to recover himself in his own time? Had his failure to respond, or his slowness to meet her halfway, been interpreted as the same rejection she had met with from so many others in the past? He considered that this habitual rejection had resulted in her assumption of it as her null hypothesis, and that to extract something positive – and marveling over it! – from her humiliating encounter with as vulgar a man as Caldin bespoke how deeply this null was engrained. It would take, he thought, some effort to uproot it, and she was not likely to change a personally-held conviction without firm evidence to contradict it – which fetched him up against a new dilemma. Empty flattery was only worthy of contempt. Only truth would succeed, the treasured truth he had kept to himself to await the time they were each in a fit position to address it. That position was hardly now.

 

“But for the record,” he said, dumping aside his thoughts and focusing on hers, “that does not necessarily mean either his opinion or assessment were inaccurate. We are not often in the habit of agreeing with people such as Caldin, but he... was not incorrect.” It was the nearest he could come to an open declaration without being one, and he wished they were – well, almost anywhere but here, on a polluted planet, on a mission, and on a schedule.

 

Paha's cheeks and aura both colored faintly. There was a shining glint of a truth that she had been trying to ignore wanting to know: did Vector see her the same way so many other humans saw Chiss? Chiding herself for cowardice, she rephrased the question: did Vector see her the same way so many other human men had seen _her_? It had been hidden amongst a grove of double negatives, but the answer was there, unmistakably. She wanted to pursue it, but this place – this awful mission on this awful planet – was decidedly less than ideal.

 

“I appreciate it, Vector,” she said, offering him a genuine smile that nonetheless seemed terribly inadequate. He seemed to think it enough, for he returned it, and it was far more a natural gesture than it had been even a few short weeks ago. His efforts at recovering his humanity, she guessed, were certainly paying off.

 

They continued on through the vacant industrial complex, the labs standing dark and empty, and their destination was no different: abandoned and eerie, with the instruments crouching in the half-light like strange beasts. Cipher powered up the one Kroius had indicated she needed and quietly arranged the treasured reagents as the machine cycled through its start-up routine. Vector stood by, silently observing her assembling the chemicals into a final concoction. Her aura was shrouded, dull, and indecipherable, with only a grim determination as the recognizable color as she filled a stim with the resulting formula. What was it that this would do to her? He knew she wouldn't tell him if he asked; she would have told him already, had she ever intended to.

 

“Cipher,” he broke the silence. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

 

She looked at him, surprised at the question. Generally, what she wanted was not often an important factor in her missions, and this was one of the rare exceptions. “Yes,” she answered firmly. “I very much do. I _must_ do this. Although I expect it may be unpleasant,” she warned him with these words at the same time she used them to brace herself. Cipher jabbed the stim into her arm, injecting the entirety of the vial. A flood of acid-like heat spun upwards from her arm, jabbing across her chest and lancing harshly through the icy pit of her stomach to her legs, and she wobbled on her feet as it came shrieking into her head. She dug her fingers into the instrument console, willing herself to stay conscious through the agony that stabbed her from the inside, and Watcher X took up a place beside her.

 

“Can you feel it? The serum begins its work. Binding to spinal fluid, retracing neural pathways. Painful. Effective.”

 

“I can handle a little pain,” she answered through gritted teeth. “I want my mind back.”

 

“The serum's course is unpredictable, and it will take time. But you will be free from the brainwashing. For now, the SIS is waiting. They won't recognize your chance to escape when it comes... but I will.”

 

“Agent!” Vector's voice cut in as Watcher X flickered from sight. He was leaning towards her, his countenance etched with concern at the sight of her face, ash-gray and drawn, beads of sweat standing on her brow.

 

“I'm okay, Vector,” she assured, taking a shaky breath. She straightened up and wiped the back of her hand across her face.

 

“What was that for?” he asked directly. Her extreme reaction to the injection had frightened him, and he no longer wanted to wait for her to offer an explanation.

 

Cipher could still feel the block that sat in her mind. Watcher X had said it would take time to break the brainwashing; she knew she shouldn't expect to tell Vector everything immediately, but she was still disappointed that she could not.

 

“To make me better,” she said. Vector heard the same colors of truth and conviction ripple through her voice now as he had seen in her aura earlier, when they talked in the deserted hallways of the labs, and he knew she meant what she told him. “It hasn't done anything yet. But it will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Kroius is a total slimy creep, Watcher X is a bit of a creep, most humans view Vector as a creep, Chiss are generally thought of as creeps. You get the idea.
> 
> 2\. The more I thought about the qualifications necessary to be a top level agent and the experiences of Vector, the more I found they were uniquely situated to genuinely understand and appreciate each other's circumstances.
> 
> 3\. I didn't know anything about Chiss society when I made this character. I didn't look up anything about it until a few pages into writing this fic, and I was happy to discover that so much of my Agent's outlook on life fit in perfectly with the customs and mores of Chiss society, or with the understandable results of such. Instantaneously, her whole backstory filled in of its own accord.
> 
> 4\. Chiss hit adulthood around age 13. They have a very short adolescence. That must be a mercy to their parents.
> 
> 5\. If you pay attention and/or eavesdrop on NPCs on Hoth, you'll hear this sort of anti-Chiss sentiment openly expressed among human Imperial soldiers. Chiss are creepy, and even if one soldier opines that the women are "sort of... exotic," his friend cautions him to stay well away from them.


	6. Hoth

“You never told me the men of your people were so cute,” Kaliyo said, her voice muffled over the comm links embedded in their thermal balaclavas.

 

“What?” Cipher replied, only half-listening. She was lying prone in a snow drift, peering across the empty span of white between their position and a cluster of White Maw pirates who had made the Highmount Ridge of Hoth their unlikely home. There was a strong wind blowing, whipping up the crystals of ice into little dagger-like shards, caking onto her goggles, and generally making it annoyingly difficult to draw a good bead on the pirate sentry strolling back and forth in front of the encampment. They were searching for a number of caches of equipment hidden here by Admiral Davros, an Imperial officer who, based on all available evidence, appeared to be just about as dirty as they come, even by the standards of typical systemic Imperial corruption. He had vanished hours before Cipher's arrival, reportedly on an expedition – but it was clear to Cipher that he was taking his hoard of ill-gotten goods and bugging out. The ship he happened to have selected as one of the spoils of his escape? The _Starbreeze,_ the same Republic vessel Ardun Kothe had sent her to retrieve. Were there such things as coincidences? Or was this the hand of the Force at work? Regardless, with the help of the Chiss Expansionary Defense Force, stationed in a hidden outpost below the icy tundra, Cipher was on Davros' trail, following up leads on the admiral's secret stashes amongst the White Maw pirates.

 

“Your Aristocra back there, the one that is so easy on the eyes. Saganu,” Kaliyo teased.

 

“I didn't really notice,” Cipher lied. It had been a stunning revelation, the discovery of an entire base of Chiss here on Hoth. She had not been among so many of her own people since her childhood, and it had been both dazzling and unnerving to be suddenly surrounded by them again. The discipline, the shrewd cunning, the open appreciation for talent unadulterated by the usual human qualifiers: “You're good... for an _alien_.” This planet and these people spoke to all her oldest memories, and all her ideas embodied in the word _home_ , and offered a warmth so unexpected that she had been alarmed to find tears stinging her eyes. It was an undeniable pull.

 

And yet, she recalled, these were the people that had expelled her from the snowy planet Csilla to the infinitely colder regions of space when she was but a child. Not these individuals, of course, but people like them – people who still retained their positions within Chiss society and would have been shocked and dismayed if they knew of her secret connection to disgrace. Cipher had been on the verge of being overwhelmed, and it had taken her a few moments to recover herself. She half-wished Vector had been with her – he knew this much of her history, he would understand how this must affect her. Kaliyo's exceptional propensity for detachment, putting it politely, made her less than ideal for discussing the matter. She would never understand. Her skill in the sort of fight they were likely to face, however, was a benefit that far outweighed Cipher's personal emotional issues, something she generally kept squarely locked away while she was working.

 

“Yeah, I should have expected as much,” Kaliyo replied. “You only have eyes for Bugboy.”

 

“His name is Vector,” Cipher chided mildly, “he would probably be obliged if you used it. And I don't know what you're talking about.”

 

“Ha! Like fun,” Kaliyo scoffed. “Don't pretend you don't gape at him when you think no one else is looking. He does the same to you.”

 

“Does he, now?” Cipher answered neutrally, since it seemed a response was expected. She wasn't about to walk blithely into Kaliyo's trap; she kept her voice detached and amused, despite the surge of eager curiosity she told herself she didn't feel.

 

“Maybe. With those eyes of his, who can tell?” Kaliyo wasn't inclined to offer up freebies if Cipher wasn't going to take the bait. “Anyway, if you really aren't interested in Saganu, mind if I, you know?”

 

“Kaliyo,” Cipher pulled her eye away from her scope and looked towards her partner, “when have you ever needed my permission to do anything?”

 

“Alright, never,” Kaliyo shrugged. “I just figured I'd make sure I wasn't stepping on your territory. If you wanted him. If you don't, fine.”

 

“You're an adult. He's an adult. I'm sure you can make your own decisions.” But for all that, Cipher wasn't exactly easy with the idea. The Aristocra was a very noble man, a man of principle, discipline, integrity – in short, one of the best the Chiss could offer to the galaxy to represent his people. Kaliyo was... well, Kaliyo. The anarchist, the blunt, the irrepressible and the irresponsible. But Cipher knew she wasn't in any position to – what, defend the virtue of a man she barely knew? Saganu was certainly more than capable of taking care of himself. He could make his own decisions, indeed.

 

“He didn't exactly strike me as your type, though,” she added, lowering her eye again to her rifle scope. Well, perhaps she would defend the Aristocra's virtue a _little_.

 

“Good-looking _is_ my type,” Kaliyo said. Apparently, Rattataki weren't as inhibited by universal prejudices as humans were. Or perhaps, it was just Kaliyo who wasn't.

 

“Are you ready to do this, or do you intend to act like a Nautolan schoolgirl all day?” Cipher asked.

 

“Any time. I've been waiting on you.”

 

Cipher let fly a well-aimed shot, and a pirate dropped into the snow without a sound. Kaliyo sailed into the fight as Cipher laid down cover fire, and in short order, the field was clear and they were advancing to tag the cache of supplies.

 

“These are the sort that seem more your type,” Cipher gave a gesture encompassing the pirate encampment.

 

“What, dead?” Kaliyo asked. “I tend to prefer something a little more active, thanks. But, honestly, Saganu probably would be a waste of my time. He could hardly take his eyes off you.”

 

“I didn't notice that, either,” Cipher lied again, focusing on prepping the electronic beacon to attach to the supply crate.

 

“Then you don't pay close enough attention. It's going to get you killed someday. Or at least will make you miss out on some very appealing men.” Kaliyo stamped her feet, rubbing her hands together. “Have I mentioned that I hate this planet? This is worse than Tatooine.”

 

“This is at least the third time you've indicated that, yes,” Cipher answered, not looking up from the crates. “It doesn't bother me.” She had felt an extraordinary sense of relief when the shuttle from the planet to the orbital station had left Quesh behind her, the prophetic dream unfulfilled and vanquished.

 

“What? Screw you, man.”

 

“It reminds me of Csilla. My home planet.”

 

“You grew up in a place like this? That explains a lot.”

 

“Oh?” Cipher kept her voice even and inquisitive.

 

“You can be kind of cold-blooded. Seriously, this place really doesn't give you the creeps?”

 

That word again – _creep_ , forever linked to the Chiss. But maybe that was it, Cipher thought. Maybe it had less to do with their appearance, and more to do with the nature of Chiss to be impartial and efficient. Other races, namely humans with their impetuosity and hot tempers, would see the Chiss as cold and passionless, like their snowy world. Twi'leks were more open and less suspicious, welcoming all. No wonder they were conquered and enslaved so easily, Cipher thought uncharitably, they were often so trusting. But Csilla held wonders below its surface, cities of warmth and light, secure beneath the icy exterior. So few outsiders would ever see it. And perhaps the Chiss were the same, she reflected.

 

“No, it really doesn't,” she answered. She wiped a fresh film of ice from her goggles.

 

“Double screw you,” Kaliyo answered good-naturedly, shrugging her shoulders against the cold. “At least Tatooine wasn't fr-”

 

“Kaliyo, get down!” Cipher yelled, shoving the Rattataki woman aside as a massive paw armed with sharp claws swung through the air. Behind them, their tauntaun mounts screamed in fear, rearing wildly and tearing the snow anchor free from the ice in their panic as the sound of a wampa's roar filled their ears. Stepping back and dropping to one knee, Cipher got off three rapid shots before the wampa advanced on her. She jerked aside from the first blow, but the second caught her on the backswing, scraping the side of her head and fully catching her right shoulder, flipping her over and wrenching her arm at a painful angle, laying it open to the stinging wind and gushing blood into the snow. Dazed and shaken, Cipher floundered a moment, trying to get her bearings as Kaliyo emptied her blaster pistol into the creature's tough hide. The beast turned, shrieking in rage, and lumbered toward her.

 

“Shit!” Kaliyo exclaimed, her feet sinking deeply in the drifts and miring her in place. She drew her vibroblade in her other hand and flung herself flat, narrowly dodging a swing that would have killed her instantly, and the wampa stomped angrily, tearing at her prone form as she vainly stabbed upwards, driving her blade into the creature's unprotected underbelly. “Are you going to help me or what?” she howled.

 

Cipher jerked her smashed goggles down from her eyes, squinting against the harsh, wind-borne ice, and rammed the butt of her rifle against her mangled shoulder, grunting with the pain and reflecting that conditions could hardly be worse: no goggles to protect her sight, miserable visibility in a strong and unpredictable wind, a horrible position to fire from with a shoulder that was more than half-shredded, and a terrible position to fire into with her friend in locked in close combat with a creature she little knew the weaknesses of. A shot to the head usually worked on most mammals, and there wasn't time to debate it. She pulled the trigger.

 

Running across the snow anxiously, she found the wampa sprawled in the drift, dead from a single bolt clean through the brain. Cipher grabbed the creature's arm with her left hand, pulling back with all her strength as Kaliyo wiggled out from under the beast's monstrous weight.

 

“Thanks,” she said weakly. She took a breath and coughed on the icy air. “Ugh. Yeah. I'm up.”

 

“Not for long, either of us,” Cipher could feel the blood running freely down her face, and Kaliyo looked like she had been through a meat grinder. Without her armor, she would have been long dead, and torn to pieces, to boot. “Here. This is the last kolto pack, you use it while I catch the tauntauns. We are in no condition to be out here longer. Let's get back to the ship.”

 

“Not the Chiss base?” Kaliyo tried to sound teasing, but her feeble voice wasn't up to the task.

 

“The ship,” Cipher answered firmly. “First for Doctor Lokin's expertise, and second, I am sleeping in my own damn bed tonight.”

 

“I'll drink to that,” Kaliyo said weakly, taking the medpack. “Or would, if I didn't feel like I had four holes in my stomach.”

  

\- - - -

 

Doctor Lokin and Vector were studying their moves over the dejarik table when they heard the outer door open.

 

“I wasn't expecting their return so soon,” Lokin said, standing up.

 

“Nor were we,” Vector agreed, alert as he followed the doctor across the lounge. Cipher and Kaliyo met them in the doorway, Kaliyo leaning heavily on Cipher and a trail of blood-tinged snow melting in the corridor behind them.

 

“Great stars!” Lokin exclaimed at the sight. “Get in here!”

 

“Take Kaliyo first,” Cipher ordered, limping across the deck and transferring her friend to the med bay bed. “She is hurt worse than I am. I'm not so bad off.”

 

“Sure, add insult to injury,” Kaliyo griped, cringing at the pain as she eased off her feet.

 

Cipher stepped out of the narrow med bay to give Lokin space to work, and sank down weakly on the lounge couch near the holoterminal to wait her turn, propping up her cheek on her left hand, her elbow resting among the holographic characters of the abandoned dejarik game. Her right arm dangled limply across her lap. She closed her eyes, half-blinded by the stinging ice and the brilliance of the frigid sun that reflected sharply from every inch of snow outside; in contrast, it had seemed quite dark inside the ship, which was a relief to her aching head. A moment later, she felt a light touch gently loosening the matted fur of her parka hood from the congealed blood on her temple. She opened one eye.

 

“We are not as skilled as Doctor Lokin,” Vector said from beside her on the couch, “but we may do what we can until he is ready for you.” He took a cloth from Toovee, standing nearby, and dipped it in the basin of water the droid held, then took meticulous care in dabbing the blood from her face. Her sharp intake of breath hissed in her throat as he probed the wound too closely.

 

“We are sorry.”

 

“It's okay,” she assured him. “Thanks.”

 

She was otherwise quiet as he continued his work, holding very still against the dejarik table. Now that the immediate problem of survival and rescue was solved, she had little to focus on other than the pain, which was starting to make her feel a bit woozy. The ship was very warm after the bitter climate outside, and the heat was not helping her lightheadedness. Although the idea of having to hold up her head without help was rather nauseating, she removed the comfortable support her left hand offered to fumble with the fastenings of her parka.

 

“Hold still,” Vector ordered. Docilely, she obeyed, and he set the bloodstained cloth aside to unfasten the jacket himself.

 

“I think it's dislocated; I'm sorry,” Cipher said, clearly referring to the arm that lay useless as Vector delicately slid the parka away from her body. She leaned back to gingerly draw her injured arm from the shredded sleeve, and as she felt the color drain from her face, she swiftly dropped her head, cradling it on her left arm across the dejarik table. She had no idea why she was apologizing, and she focused all her attention on the holographic Mantellian savrip that stood on the board, yawning with boredom over the interrupted game, while Vector cut away the remnants of her uniform sleeve to inspect the damage more closely. He had been at work a short while, cleaning the parallel wounds of the claw marks with a soothing softness, when he at last broke the silence.

 

“We think you should consider the idea that you take too many risks,” he said gravely. “If we may say so.”

 

“Hm,” Cipher's answer was nebulous, and her aura registered too much bodily pain to offer any other clues to what she was thinking. The savrip on the dejarik board folded its arms, and was tapping its foot with impatience. She couldn't think why she would be paying it any attention, unless it was to keep from passing out, but she remembered it in high detail later. An eruption of swearwords in at least three languages issued forth from the med bay as Kaliyo vented her response to pain, and Paha was spared answering further, for a short time.

 

“May we ask what happened?” Vector's mild voice broke the silence again. He was still rather troubled by the serum Cipher had taken on Quesh – she had said it would make her “better.” Better how? Was she ill? Was it related to her collapse? Lokin had said there was no physical malady then. Was it something that would alter her – make her stronger, or tougher, or faster? Those sorts of stims and adrenals already existed, and were nothing like what she had made and used. The notion that she felt she had to alter her physiology to improve herself was concerning. He had altered his physiology when he Joined, and every relationship in his life had changed right along with him, many to the extent that they no longer existed. But this seemed different from the Joining, and, moreover, he didn't want her to change. Was the Quesh mixture responsible for some recklessness that had endangered both herself and Kaliyo?

 

After a moment, Cipher answered, “We took out a cluster of pirates, while on Davros' trail. The danger was over. We didn't know we were upwind of a wampa – the wind was whipping up the snow. We couldn't see it until it was nearly on us. I had no idea something that big could move that fast.” She fell quiet, then added, “I wasn't taking a risk. I was careless.” Kaliyo had been right: not paying attention _was_ likely to get her killed someday. “Careless, and stupid,” she finished.

 

“Next patient!” Doctor Lokin called from the med bay, and Cipher raised her head.

 

“You,” she said directly to Vector, “are going with me next. I need someone with hand-to-hand combat skills.”

 

“Not today, we hope,” Vector rebutted flatly.

 

“No,” agreed Cipher. “Tomorrow, or whenever Doctor Lokin clears me to go.”

 

“Then we will be glad to join you,” Vector nodded.

 

“Really?” Kaliyo interposed weakly, supporting herself against the door of the med bay. She gave a lopsided grin. “That's a mistake. He can't take a hit like I can, Agent.”

 

“I'm not sure that's something to be proud of, Kaliyo,” Cipher answered. “How are you doing?”

 

“Doc says I'll live. I've been worse. Once had a doc pronounce me dead three times. He only shut up because I gave him a poke in the nose.” She gave a chuckle, then winced at the impact it had on her knitting ribs.

 

“Bed rest for you, Kaliyo,” Lokin stuck his head out of the med bay. “I believe I already made that perfectly clear. And I can't think why I am standing here waiting when someone is bleeding all over the dejarik table.”

 

“Toovee, make sure Kaliyo gets to her quarters,” Cipher ordered, without bothering to listen to either the droid's effusive declarations of obedience or Kaliyo's derisive scoff. Bracing herself with the dejarik table, she stood on unsteady legs and tottered to the med bay, unaware of Vector following solicitously behind in case she passed out. He stood in the corridor around the corner from the med bay, out of sight, while Lokin set about finishing the work he had started.

 

“You're lucky, Agent,” Lokin reported, inspecting the head wound before applying a healing kolto paste. “A few centimeters to the left and there would be very little even my skill could do for you. As for this,” he transferred his attention to her arm, “the gashes are an easy thing to mend. But the shoulder will have to be done the old-fashioned way. It won't be easy; it's quite swollen. Here,” he added, jabbing an injection into her bicep, “this is for the pain.”

 

“Just do it,” Cipher answered, clamping her teeth down on a few folds of her intact sleeve. For all her grit, however, she couldn't hold back the cry of pain that warbled from her lips as the doctor gave a sharp jerk to force the joint back into place. In the hallway outside, Vector leaned against the wall, wiping a sympathetic cold sweat from his pale face. In truth, he hoped Doctor Lokin would not be overly effective in his treatment: in his opinion, Cipher could stand to have a few quiet days to heal. But that would depend on how urgent it was to keep Davros from the _Starbreeze_. Cipher wasn't the sort to sit idly by while her quarry slipped through her fingers. Injured or not, she would try to pursue – in which case, would it not be better for Lokin to exert all the brilliance of his skill?

 

“Are you okay?” came a quiet voice beside him. He started and turned, surprised to see Cipher, and he wondered how long he had been standing there, lost in thought.

 

“Should we not be asking you that?” he replied. “You look much improved, but... yet not at your best.”

 

“I've been better,” Cipher admitted. “Lokin says I had better give the shoulder a day or two to settle in place.” She sighed. “I'm going to fret over every second of this delay.”

 

“We hope you will not think of disobeying the doctor,” Vector cautioned.

 

“No,” Cipher shook her head. “So I suppose the best thing to do would be to do whatever is necessary to heal up as quickly as possible. Even if that means eating whatever novel and sustaining meal Toovee has decided to grace us with today.”

 

“Mirialan cuisine is very nourishing. Doctor Lokin has shared many recipes with Toovee,” Vector answered with careful neutrality. “But we agree. The sooner you are better, the sooner you can return to the field. And we will be glad to accompany you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. By this point, I was so enamored with Vector that I never even brought Kaliyo out on Hoth. I assume she'd hate it, but I didn't verify.
> 
> 2\. Loved the Chiss storyline on Hoth. LOVED it.


	7. The Chiss Expansionary Defense Force

 Although Cipher chafed under the forced inactivity, she found ways to put the time to good use. After reading Vector in on the details and discoveries of the mission so far, and assembling the cold-weather gear they would need – her parka was far beyond repair – Vector mentioned that there had been word of some developments among his diplomatic contacts.

 

“Agent, you recall we spoke to the Diplomatic Service about building an alliance between Empire and Killiks? Falner Oeth, the man who offered his backing in return for our assistance, has asked us for his first favor.”

  
Cipher put her head to one side. In truth, she didn't think the Zabrak diplomat was entirely to be trusted. “Of course,” she said wryly. One hand washing the other – she was mildly surprised it had taken Oeth this long to call in his first request. “And that is?”

  
“Falner wants our notes on various families and unaligned worlds in the Questal Sector. He means to bring that sector into the Empire. We worked in Questal a long while, and we knew its people well.” Aside from his usual pensive look, Vector's face indicated some essence of regret, and it made Cipher notice how much more expressive his features had become through his efforts to rehumanize himself. “It's... odd to see someone else take the reins.”

  
“You miss being a diplomat? You don't talk much about your old life,” Cipher observed.

  
Vector blinked, considering her words. It was true – he had spent a great deal of time thinking about the sparse fragments of Paha's past that she had revealed to him, and wondering about the parts that remained hidden; it had never dawned on him that he had been equally, though unintentionally, secretive. So much of his old life seemed distant, like a story that had happened to someone else that he had read about, or seen in a holovid. His diplomatic work had held such importance in his life; looking back on the memories springing up now, he wondered how he could have distanced himself from something that had been such a critical part of his existence.

 

“We don't often have a reason to think about it," he admitted.  "We do miss negotiating – reaching out to understand people, synthesizing their needs. Daizanna of the Iesei nest says that desire makes us a better Joiner. It's only small comfort.”

 

“You still have your skills; you haven't forgotten your training,” Cipher pointed out. If anything, his Joining the nest had made him more astute, more observant, more intent on understanding others, most particularly the humans he had once accepted as his reference of normalcy prior to the change. Without Joining, he might not have been prompted to scrutinize the human world so closely. He might not, either, have been so intent on comprehending her, and she could not recall another person in her adult life who had ever made half as much of an effort to know or understand her, save for the behavioral psychologists at Imperial Intelligence. They filled dossiers with extensive profiles on all their agents as a matter of professional course, not out of genuine interest or the riskier prospect of genuine affection. It appeared that here, there was a certain measure of both interest and affection, but as she had lain awake a sleepless night after leaving Quesh, she had decided that until she could liberate herself from the control others exercised over her at will, she had no business freely offering herself to anyone. Another incentive, she had thought then, impatiently mentally jabbing the block that shackled her mind. For the present, she could only offer her advice and her support, and she added, “Even as Dawn Herald, you're an ambassador.”

  
“Perhaps, but seeing men like Falner again,” Vector mused, his voice tinged with contemplative melancholy, “we think it's best if he handles negotiations.”

  
Paha understood all too well what he really meant. One-half of diplomacy was rooted in being engaging and relatable to the parties involved, and if the parties involved could not see past his black eyes and altered physiology, then that responsiveness was gone, no matter how much empathy he felt. Oh yes, she understood that.  In all her experiences among humans, she had never found a solution to it, and although she had been able to provide the support she had resolved upon, she found herself unequal to providing the advice. Her insufficiency and silence disappointed her.

  
“Apologies, agent. This is something we need to think on more deeply...” Vector continued, apparently unperturbed by her dumbness, “but we are glad you stand by us.”

  
It seemed the support, Paha reflected with a nod, was enough, after all.

 

\- - - -

 

Cipher reined in her tauntaun to survey the icy vista that spread before her. She had learned to be cautious here, even when the view of Hoth's white wastes appeared to stretch empty and clear for kilometers around.

  
“Anything wrong?” asked Vector, drawing up his mount beside her.

  
She shook her head in a negative. “We're almost there,” she said, “The starship graveyard.”

  
The starship graveyard was a tangled mess of crashed and fragmented ships, both Imperial and Republic, left behind as an eternal and unintentional memorial to the crews who had died during the Battle of Hoth. Admiral Davros had fought in that battle, and nursed his grudges ever since. He was down there now, salvaging the _Starbreeze_ and its Republic secrets, preparing to sell them, along with any other detritus of value that he could, to the highest bidder.

  
Also down there were Aristocra Saganu, his soldiers, and Ensign Raina Temple, an unlikely human woman hidden amongst the Chiss Expansionary Defense Force. A _Force-sensitive_ woman at that, taking refuge against prying Imperial eyes. That had indeed been a surprise; revealed when she had used a mind trick to distract an attacking posse of Davros' thugs – or thugs that were as much Davros' as the mercenary promise of a share of the wealth could make them. They were a gang of White Maw elites who referred to themselves as the Marauders, and it was fortunate that Davros had decided he needed the extra muscle: That decision had enabled Ensign Temple to track the Marauders' to their lair, where Cipher tapped through the wall to eavesdrop on Davros working out his deal with them. It had required a trek through a hazardous region called the Bone Pit, full of blind corners, narrow corridors, and fierce beasts, and Cipher had been thankful she had recognized in advance the need for skilled hand-to-hand combat this time.

 

While Cipher had briefed Vector on the presence of the Chiss on Hoth, she had done so with the usual business-like detachment she employed while discussing work, and he had refrained from pressing her on the details of the matter. It must be, he correctly guessed, a subject of some sensitivity for her, and he thought he should better not inspect this particular wound with the same intensity he had used on her physical injuries so recently. Emotional scars were often prone to opening far more easily than bodily ones.

 

And so, when meeting Aristocra Saganu for the first time as they checked in at the Chiss base prior to tracking the Marauders, Vector hadn't been entirely prepared. While he hadn't framed any particular mental image of Saganu, and Paha had not provided any particular description, either, he was nonetheless surprised. Saganu was younger than he had expected – and also tall, articulate, well-featured, and accustomed to commanding with authority and confident wisdom.

 

For the first time in a long span of his memory, Vector found himself relying more on the outward cues of social interaction than the personal auras detectable to his heightened vision to read the situation. The expanded vision of his eyes gave him a mixture of information of visible light and wavelengths that extended far into infrared and ultraviolet ranges of the electromagnetic spectrum. Coupled with a Killik ability to scent biochemical responses – adrenaline, pheromones, serotonin, and the like – these various inputs gave him the necessary building blocks to discern a great deal of information about the subject – things they often never intended to reveal. But reading others was a highly individualized process, and subject to a certain amount of interpretation for each person. While some things – strong, basic emotions, for example, such as fear or joy – were easy to discern in a foreign aura, it took time and attention to learn to read the more subtle clues. Aristocra Saganu had a clear control over himself and many of the emotions that might betray his thoughts, so there was little that Vector's Killik vision could tell him, but within the human limitations of sight, it was yet impossible for him to miss Saganu's interest in Paha.

 

Paha was giving up few of her secrets, too. Vector was more familiar with the colors of her emotions and thought processes than he was with anyone outside of the nest, where the interconnectedness made aura-reading unnecessary, and he stood back to study hers as she spoke with the Aristocra. Her emotional state was unsettled, that much was plain, but Vector was unable to identify if the source were the mission – a tense enough subject, naturally; or her sudden submergence amongst her own kind again – certainly a cause for joy and fear in equal measure; or a response to the attention of Saganu – a thought which Vector found he could not pursue due to the cryptic response of his own feelings. He had had ample time to consider the topic as they rode in silence across the white plains of Hoth, first to the Marauder's lair, and now to the outskirts of the starship graveyard, and he had come, repeatedly, to an inescapable conclusion: he was jealous.

 

Although he had been personally mortified by Caldin's wandering hands, casually pawing profanely at something the gangster little knew the value of, on that occasion jealousy had held no part of Vector's indignation. Saganu, on the other hand, had been nothing but respectful, civil, and appreciative. Why should graciousness cause him more unease than the absolute absence of it? It didn't take him long to trace the issue back to its source: Paha herself.  In the one case, Cipher's fury and revulsion were her primary response. In the other case, she was outwardly the reflection of Saganu: respectful, civil, and appreciative, while inwardly she was a conflict of emotions, the majority of them not negative.

 

It was something he had not ever considered. As they traveled the galaxy, he had, he realized, taken it for granted that it would continue as it had so far been – the two of them, along with a few other odd companions; thus far, non-threateningly, another woman and an older man. It had never once occurred to him, particularly after she had shared her reflections on human men and her confession of exile, that she would meet another man who would show interest in her and whose interest she might return. Of course, now that that exact prospect loomed before him, Vector condemned himself for blindness and folly, and a jarring, discordant song of himself buzzed in his ears.

 

Jealousy was not a known emotion in the hive, where thoughts and feelings were shared on the instant of their conception, and as he mulled the matter over, the realization slowly dawned on him that his was an entirely human reaction. Perversely, the thought quirked his mouth into a smile of sour irony in the depths of his muffling balaclava. Humans tended to be possessive creatures, and what better could have illustrated to him the extent to which he had recovered his human side than this unfamiliar enviousness? The apprehension of loss was what highlighted most clearly what he had so far gained; this, too, was so very human. At what point would he decide he had recovered enough, and speak out? Where laid the point of equilibrium between the two halves of his unique nature, which right now mingled uncomfortably as two parts of a song not quite in tune? If he were not in harmony with himself, he could not, in good conscience, hope for her melody to join with his. And so he had kept silent, and faced now the fear that that silence might be destined to continue.

 

Wounded by his own feelings, he reflected rather bitterly that it had been he, not Saganu, who had been by her side the longer.  And what, his logic argued in return, did that signify? It was an absurd thought, that his efforts on her behalf should place her under an obligation to respond with anything other than simple gratitude. She did not owe him a reward simply for him being a decent person; moreover, he had higher standards than that, and reasoned her pride would give her a similar opinion. Thus it was an unhealthy trap to obsess over their time together - time during which he had hardly made an overt move - or to tally up what he had done for her, or what she had done for him, and pore over the balance as if it would provide answers to questions he hadn't asked.

 

But logic, he was beginning to deduce, could only do so much against a heart that was indeed proving itself as more human than he had thought: all the reasoning in the galaxy could not quell the melancholy fear that he stood every chance of losing her solely through the fault of his own inactivity and complacency. Although... if she could be happy with Saganu, if Saganu could efface that dull film that muted her spirit, then - Vector stopped, unwilling to continue the line of thought, aware that he was moving perilously closer to a dirge.

  
“Can you see anything?” Cipher asked, her voice a welcome interruption to his cyclical thoughts. His enhanced sight could detect enemies camouflaged against the snow.

  
He pointed out a few small clusters of the White Maw, milling about in a desultory manner around the wrecks; they were easily avoided, and nearly as easy to remove, if it came to that. Their task was to infiltrate the same Republic super-dreadnaught ship that held Davros and his hoarde, deactivate the blast doors to admit Ensign Temple's strike team and pin down Davros in the launch bay that held the _Starbreeze_ while Saganu's team held the escape route clear. In comparison, removing a few spare pirates from the scenario on the way in was child's play, but Cipher was thankful for the activity. The muscle memory of the act of firing, the need to measure her breath as she aimed, the stripping away of all extraneous thoughts until nothing remained but her target – these little rituals were, at this moment, of vital necessity to her to recoup her scattered thoughts. She would need all her wits for what lay ahead, and could not afford to be distracted by – by – Cipher bit her lip as the thoughts and memories she was trying to push down bubbled up again.

 

After the Aristocra had finished briefing them on the plan for the attack, the group separated to make their preparations. Vector had gone ahead while Cipher had dawdled; Saganu had clearly wanted to speak with her alone.

 

“You've done us proud,” he began in tones of grave and earnest sincerity, “The Ascendancy needs more like you in the Empire. But more than that,” Saganu added, his voice softening, “you embody the Red Flame – our courage, our cunning, and our discipline.” He stepped closer as he listed the attributes, and finished, “You are a remarkable woman.”

 

Cipher returned his direct and steady gaze, and in the dark red depths, she read there far more than the import of his words alone. There was affection there, and desire, and a question. All it would take would be a word, a gesture – just a kiss, and Saganu would have his answer.

 

There was a part of Paha that wanted to accept the unspoken invitation. It would be easy, so easy – to stay here among her people, to turn her back on the Empire and Intelligence, to accept the refuge that Saganu was openly prepared to offer her. But in her tally of her life, the epithet “easy” was not often applied. She had made a commitment to Imperial Intelligence, something not dropped on a whim. Doctor Lokin's retirement was the exception more than the rule; death was the most common way out for an agent. Additionally, she was still subject to the commands of Hunter, who wielded her codeword with a callous frequency, and her chains would persist until the serum finally let her break the programming. Someday, too, Saganu would ask about her family and her history, and she would have to tell him the truth, lest he discover it another way: she was a child of exile, forbidden to set foot on Csilla evermore. Embodiment of the Red Flame! What an incongruous compliment Saganu had made! She could almost laugh at the comedic tragedy of it. It was better, far better, that he either never know, or that she be gone before she ever had to tell him.

 

And there was Vector. Vector who awaited her in the adjoining room, patient and watchful; who had shown her such loyalty and faith; who was not at all the least among her considerations as she weighed her response. She owed him something – what that was, she could not define, since their own relationship seemed as yet so undefinable, but he certainly did not deserve casual treatment.

  
Cipher bowed solemnly. “Thank you, sir; I am honored. I hope I will continue to be worthy of such generous praise.”

 

If Saganu was disappointed, he hid it well. Cipher had no doubt that he would be fine. He sped her on her mission, and she joined Vector where he waited with their tauntauns saddled and ready, hoping she looked calmer than she felt. She neither doubted nor regretted her decision, but she knew it would nonetheless pursue her across Hoth's icy wastelands. Or would, at least, until pushed out by the more pressing matter of whittling down the numbers of White Maw pirates that patrolled the super-dreadnaught. Cipher fired again, and led the way into the launch bay where Admiral Davros waited.

 

Cipher was unsurprised to find relations between Davros and his mercenaries were strained, at best, and did not improve when Davros offered to exchange his life for the _Starbreeze_ , once promised as payment to the Marauders. The second of Davros' requests, however, was absolutely out of the question.

 

“The location of the secret Chiss base,” he demanded. “They know too much. We are all Imperials! Give me the Chiss, pledge your silence, and we will return to the Empire in glory. You will have your shuttle, and wealth besides.”

 

In her current mood, Cipher was not even inclined to leverage the dissension among the pirates to her advantage. Davros could not have asked her for something she found more personally offensive.

 

“Absolutely not,” she denied flatly. Vector eyed the assembly warily, including Cipher. He knew she was a creature of conviction, and that her valuing the skills of aliens the Empire considered as inferiors was one of the strongest of those convictions, but still, it was not often that she displayed this so overtly while working. She was cool and clear-headed, but he could read the anger and indignation in her aura. Was that for the idea of the mass slaughter of her people, or was it for the safety of Saganu?

 

At this point, it didn't really matter, honestly. Davros and his mercenaries were hardly going to accept her response, and Vector reached for his electrostaff. These Imperials and hired soldiers were more skilled than the White Maw sentries in the halls and outnumbered Cipher and him at least four-to-one, but pitilessly, Cipher hammered them with round after round of high-energy bolts until all lay stretched and still on the cold floor of the hanger bay, Davros included. The Empire was better off without men like Admiral Davros ranking high in the military.

 

Cipher took out her holocommunicator. “Codename Legate to Hunter. I have located the _Starbreeze_.”

 

Hunter's miniature image popped up in white and blue, and he answered, “You look like hell – fiery as always. Get that shuttle running and rendezvous at these coordinates. Hunter out.”

 

The holo went dark, and Cipher's lip curled derisively. It was getting more and more difficult to disguise her dislike of Hunter – his over-familiar and insinuating ways, the vulgar observations he passed off as compliments, his manner of expressing himself as though he were giggling at some private joke he was playing on the galaxy. _Keep laughing, little man_ , Cipher thought to herself. _The day is coming when you will choke on it_. She hoped that day would not be far off, and her ability to nurse her anger was both an impetus to the serum working against the conditioning as well as a sign that the serum was beginning to have an effect. Until freedom, she determined she would do her best to avoid being alone with Hunter for any length of time. Coupling his arrogantly free manner towards women with his total unscrupulousness was more than sufficient to suggest several ways he might abuse the use of her codeword outside of her intelligence skills, and the ensuing mental picture turned her stomach.

  
Of the strike team clearing out the super-dreadnaught, only Ensign Temple was left, badly wounded as she staggered into the launch bay. She was a useful person, and quite resourceful, Cipher considered, particularly with those Force tricks she kept up her sleeve. From a professional standpoint, she would continue to be valuable to the Empire; from a more personal point of view, Paha wondered if Temple could offer any perspective on Force-sent visions and prophetic dreams. Furthermore, a third hand would help significantly in getting the shuttle off the ground.

 

“We'll patch you up, and get you out of here,” Cipher offered, “but you must understand, you cannot repeat anything that you might see.”

 

“Understood, sir,” Temple agreed easily. "I've been hiding my Force abilities for most of my life. I know how to keep a secret."

  
They met Hunter at the appointed location. He was his typical smug, satisfied self, and, in spite of Cipher's recent resolution, she could not deny him his demand to speak privately, out of earshot of Vector and Temple.

 

“Ardun Kothe'll be happy,” Hunter said, his voice for once holding a serious tone, “But the girl... we agree she needs to die, right?”

 

“She's no threat to us,” Cipher objected. “I have already sworn her to secrecy. Besides, out here on Hoth, who could she possibly tell?”

 

“She's Imperial. She knows about the _Starbreeze_ , she's seen me, she's seen you... Look, you've worked with her,” Hunter shrugged patronizingly, “you've bonded with her – fine. I'm not heartless. Maybe she'll even be useful. You want her to live, you take responsibility. Stash her on your ship. She doesn't talk to anyone, doesn't learn about the SIS.”

 

“You want me to hold her prisoner? For what crime? Solitary confinement for a job well done?” Cipher replied. “What kind of person do you think I am?”

 

“A merciful one,” Hunter replied, his tone scornful. “Just to be sure, though, I'm putting a command in your brain. Keyword onomatophobia: If Raina Temple becomes a threat to our mission or leaves your supervision, you will kill her. You won't have a choice.”

 

Hunter turned on his heel and stalked away to the _Starbreeze,_ leaving Cipher to stare daggers into his back. She could feel the internal struggle, the exertion of her will prodding the serum to burn itself deeper into her tissues, but it was not enough yet – not nearly enough. Hunter's command would be obeyed. Cipher sighed. She had better go speak with the newest member of her crew – who had, on consideration, a distinct aptitude for this line of work. Temple was versatile, capable, young enough to learn – she had the potential to be a skilled operative.

 

Perhaps it was time to tell her so.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Not too many notes on this one, although I might add some later, if they occur to me. Poor Vector, fearing he's been friend-zoned.
> 
> 2\. Hunter is such a slimeball. I'm sure that he would use a codeword to get brainwashed nookie, if he (1) thought of it, (2) had the time, since I'm sure he already HAS thought of it, (3) were in a game with a more adult rating.


	8. Sparring

“Hey, you're back,” Kaliyo observed as Cipher and Vector came through the ship's port. Kaliyo looked over their shoulders to where Raina Temple followed. “And you've brought a new friend!” Her voice wasn't exactly welcoming, but neither did she seem inclined to immediately challenge the ensign to combat.

 

“Kaliyo, Raina; Raina, Kaliyo,” Cipher waved her hand by way of introduction. “Sorry, you'll have to share quarters; this isn't a pleasure yacht.”

 

“Whatever. Don't mess with my stuff, new girl, and we'll get along just fine,” shrugged Kaliyo. “Anyway, Bugboy, some guy has been pinging you on the holo every half hour for most of the day. Zabrak, kind of an ass; says his name is Eth?”

 

“Falner Oeth, from the Diplomatic Service,” Vector commented automatically. During the return trip, he had been looking forward to some down time, and perhaps the opportunity for a few minutes of quiet conversation with Paha in the corner of the cargo hold that had somehow become their spot. It seemed that wasn't going to be on the schedule after all.

 

“I'll check in with base command,” Cipher said, refraining from mentioning Kothe in front of her new crew member, “and then the holoterminal is all yours, Vector.”

 

“Thank you, Agent.”

 

Half an hour later, Cipher leaned a hand against the wall of the tiny shower stall in the ship's lavatory and bowed her head, letting the water course in rivulets along her scalp under her cropped hair, over her shoulders, and down the length of her body, a welcome warmth after the stabbing frigid air of Hoth. She knew she was drawing inexorably closer to the conclusion of this operation; in her conversation with Ardun Kothe he as much as admitted that this would be the mission to bring all to a head. This intelligence had only served to perturb her, setting her nerves again on the edge of a knife as he told her where she was to go next.

 

“Maybe you've heard of it: a death trap of a planet called Quesh,” Ardun explained. “Our primary objective is there. I want you en route.”

 

Cipher gave no indication of recognition, but she felt her heart sink within her. When she had left Quesh after making the serum, her fears mollified with the failure of her ominous dream to manifest itself in reality, she had little expectation of ever running the risk of returning. And yet, so soon, she was to face it again – but there was no sense, of course, in giving Kothe any indication of that.

 

“What's so dangerous about it?” she asked ingenuously. “Can you be more specific than 'death trap'?” I'd like to know what I'm walking into.”

 

“It's a mining world,” Ardun continued. “Our forces are fighting the Empire for chemical deposits. But you're after something else entirely. Get to these coordinates when you arrive, and we'll be in touch. Base command out.”

 

Maybe, she thought as she finished dressing, she should leave Vector on the ship. She could take Kaliyo, or even Lokin. Temple was too green for this. Kaliyo's brutality, or Lokin's experience, each would be far more suitable. But Hoth had demonstrated to her just how much she relied on Vector's enhanced senses and alert understanding as well as his skill in combat. As missions became more difficult, she had grown to depend on him more and more.  Did that make him a crutch? Was she just using him?

 

Paha turned her steps towards the cargo bay where she expected Vector would be. Kaliyo had shown Raina to their quarters, and with Doctor Lokin's assistance, the ensign was settling in. There were a few minutes before they would need to prepare the ship for take off. It wasn't much, but it might be enough to construct an enjoyable and relaxing fiction that there were no pressing demands on their attention and time. As she entered, she heard his voice, tired and tense.

 

“We do not neglect our duties. We are Dawn Herald. We do this for the nest,” he was saying. Paha stood quietly, but he could hear the song of her heartbeats behind him, accompanied by her scent, intermingling with the faint odor of jessivite crystals. She had hoarded her tiny stash, the gift from Kaliyo, covetously, but after her conversation with Kothe, had felt justified in dipping into them. As Vector turned to face her, he inhaled deeply, a gesture Paha attributed to stress. That was part of it, but Vector's homesick thoughts of the hive were soothed by the warm, comforting odor of the jessivite that wafted gently across the space between them.

 

“Agent,” he said, launching promptly into latest issue, “we have had another request from Falner Oeth, our ally inside the Diplomatic Service. We need a short leave.”

 

Paha was a little taken aback at the abrupt request. So much for a few minutes where peace and quiet could be even just imagined. She felt an odd feeling of impending loss, that she would be here on the _Phantom_ and he would not be somewhere on it, too. It was uncomfortable, and she thought she might need a short span to conquer it before discussing his request rationally. On top of that, he certainly seemed troubled by more than just Oeth's demands.

 

“I heard you talking to the emissaries of the nest,” she said slowly, uncertain if she was interfering in something that was not her concern. “Is everything alright?”

 

“Everything's fine – the distance from our kin is unusual, and causes rifts,” Vector answered quietly. He was aware he might have sounded peevish, and was touched at Paha's sincere inquiry into his state, and his relations with the nest; it was rude of him to allow his irritation to influence how he spoke to her. Since he could not be in constant contact with the Killiks as was their nature, his dropping in and out of the collective mind had led to some misunderstandings, something the Killiks generally had not had to figure out how to handle amongst their own. He had the capacity to teach them how to cope with this phenomenon, but it would take time. It wasn't a burden that Paha should have to shoulder, he felt, either in whole or in part when she was already bearing up under the weight of so much.

 

“Falner's stock is rising,” Vector continued. His voice was thoughtful, but there was a certain tone of disillusionment under his measured tenor. “But he needs further acclaim before he can push for a Killik-Imperial alliance. He's asked us to visit a former Republic governor named Yoganerr Thenoth, and win his cooperation...” Vector paused, then finished, “by turning him into a Joiner.”

 

Paha mulled this over a moment. “Do you know this Yoganerr Thenoth?”

 

“We know of him,” Vector replied. “Our paths crossed once or twice. We don't know if he would willingly Join, but Oeth has been... insistant.”

 

“Vector,” Paha cautioned, “this sounds terribly close to –” she paused, then rushed on, “to brainwashing. Stripping a man of his individuality and his own ability to make decisions...”

 

She trailed off, grasping that she had been able to speak aloud the words she had thought, without the controlling shackles stopping them before they were uttered. Even the direct word “brainwashing” had been almost effortless to say. The serum was indeed at work, and it gave her a sense of hopefulness.

 

“We'd hoped Falner wanted us for our diplomatic skills, not... for this,” Vector shook his bowed head, and Paha gave over her thoughts of the serum as she heard the disenchanted misery in his voice. “The Joining should be a gift,” Vector asserted. “But we will find a way.”

 

“I believe that you will,” Paha assured him. “Whatever you decide, I will back you. How long do you think you will be gone?”

 

“We're not certain. Oeth gave us Thenoth's location – it isn't far, but it will also depend on your own needs, Agent.” He had seen Cipher briefly after her latest conversation with Kothe, as she had informed him that the holoterminal was free for his use, and had noticed that the sharp unsettled look to her aura had returned, still permeated with that dull, dragging affliction. It hadn't dissipated, despite the jessivite crystals. Evidently, the news wasn't good, and he felt vaguely guilty that his own pet project was prompting him to abandon her at a time when he was certain she would need help. True, he was not the only one on this ship – Kaliyo was the first among them, and Lokin's prior Intelligence expertise made him invaluable – but for all that, his experiences on Hoth had shown him that he felt a certain possessive protectiveness towards Paha. Did she need protection? Not likely; he had hardly ever heard a Song of Bravery more valiant than hers, but that thought only made him more eager to share it – unless something here on Hoth made his own presence and desires superfluous. He feared asking the question, but it would be better to know.

 

“Are we done here on Hoth?” he inquired. He had not intended his question to have a double meaning, and his heart beat an anxious rhythm as he waited for her answer.

 

“We're done,” Paha took the question at face value and shook her head. A soft, nostalgic look crossed her features briefly, her eyes taking on a faraway gaze. “It was... extraordinary, I think would be the word – to be among my people again. It was both infinitely comforting, and yet also profoundly uncomfortable.” She glanced up at Vector, her mouth twisting in a bemused smile, and she leaned against a storage crate, folding her arms thoughtfully. “Would you believe, the Aristocra left me a message. He's named me merit-adoptive of his house, House Miurani. From pariah to patrician in one day.  Hmph.  It almost beggars belief.”

 

Vector had relaxed as Paha had stated that she was done with Hoth; he understood, too, the complicated feelings that she had struggled to sort out as a result of all she had found there. Nonetheless, he felt an odd pang at the news of the honor Saganu had bestowed upon her. As a member of House Miurani, she would have social standing again among the Chiss. Her respectability was restored, and now near inviolable. Had Saganu offered titles other than merit-adoptive? From all he had observed, Vector considered it was likely that he had – and yet, the only title Cipher related was the adopted kinship. Prelude to something additional? Or was that the whole and all of it? That relaxed feeling seized into tension again.

 

“Would you consider returning to Csilla?” Vector asked quietly. He turned and settled himself on an adjoining crate, and looked sideways at her.

 

“I honestly don't know,” Paha replied. “Hoth was... not easy. I don't know if I could live amongst the Chiss again, after being shut out from them for so long. And, so far as I know, Saganu knows nothing of my family's discredit. I hope he never does. Or if he does, he doesn't regret offering me the connection to his house. It would be a poor return if my grandfather's errors resulted in any diminishing of House Miurani. I would just as soon not subject myself to that level of scrutiny. I am not sure I could, or should, ever return to Csilla.”

 

Vector was slightly stung by her words, or rather, for her obvious esteem for House Miurani via its one representative that she had met, and he recognized a resurgence of that novel sensation of jealousy. It seemed as though her refusal to return to Csilla was founded too much in respect and admiration for Aristrocra Saganu, and in too much concern for his personal honor. However, she was not, he saw, trying to be deliberately cruel; she was instead trying to be open and honest, accompanied by some of that logic that occasionally got the Chiss labeled as a race with little sensitivity. That honesty was something he had long valued in her, and he disliked the idea of reneging on the appreciation of that quality just because he was a little hurt by it. Didn't it count for something, he thought, that she was here, sitting beside him and telling him of these events of her own free will? She was still working through the reasoning of her refusal – she had perhaps felt automatically that refusal was the proper course, and yet only now were the grounds for that refusal sorting themselves out in her mind.

 

“In truth,” she added, “I don't think I could feel at home there anymore. It would be both too familiar, and yet too foreign. I would never be at ease – most especially as an aristocrat! No, my place,” she made a vague gesture that encompassed the ship, the Empire, Intelligence, and, Vector thought with hope, might have included him, “is here. I don't want to be anywhere else.”

 

And that was all he needed. The dissonance of his jealousy and selfish anxiety melted away with the plain truth of her tone, sung in colors of honesty. Whatever had happened between her and Saganu, it did not seem to be a true threat to the hope that had become one of his most cherished melodies.

 

“We are glad of that,” he admitted, feeling his words inadequate. The intensity of his relief was such that he needed to change the subject. “And what is next? Where are we headed?”

 

He instantly regretted the question as he saw her demeanor change with unease and apprehension.

 

“Quesh,” she answered. Her face and voice shut down; her attitude inscrutable save for what he could read in her aura. “Again.”

 

“We see,” he replied, carefully not drawing attention to the change in her mood. “Hutt Space... a long trip from the Outer Rim. If we are swift in our errand, we see no reason why we could not be finished and return before your arrival at Quesh.”

 

Paha thought about her dream, her fears of death, her fears of Vector leaving her while she died alone. She should tell him to take his time, to stay well away from Quesh, but she knew already she was too weak. “That would be,” she said, pausing to hunt for an appropriate word, “very welcome, Vector. I agree that would be the best arrangement.”

 

“Then we suppose we had better get ready,” he said. “The sooner gone, the sooner returned, we hope.”

 

“Good luck, Vector,” Paha murmured.

 

“Thank you, Agent.”

 

\- - - -

 

Vector nodded his gratitude to the transport pod pilot and stepped aboard the _Phantom_. He hadn't realized how much it had come to feel like home to him – he had still thought of the nest on Alderaan as home until this trip, when he was surprised to find his thoughts of the _Phantom_ securely linked to the Song of Homecoming the Killiks sang for their returning warriors. In his eagerness to return, he was well ahead of his schedule, and he was gratified and warmed to find the ship already in position at the rendezvous point, patiently waiting for him. He entered the ship, secured the airlock again, and watched the readout on the wall panel indicate that the transport pod was safely away before he looked about him. He was curious and surprised to hear the sound of wordless, guttural shouts coming from the direction of the cargo bay, and he promptly turned his footsteps in that direction.

 

“Ah! Vector!” Doctor Lokin gave him a jovial grin as he stepped through the door. Lokin was seated comfortably on a tall storage box, and he held out to Vector a dish of some kind of nut, spiced in the Mirialan style. “Have some,” he offered, tossing a few into his own mouth, “and pull up a crate. You're just in time. This promises to be good.”

 

The supply crates had been moved to the outer walls, and a padded layer of mats had been laid across the floor. Kaliyo stood to the side in her usual attitude – arms folded, looking both bored and extremely busy in holding up the wall – and in the center were Cipher and Temple, in Imperial military tanks and close-fitting pants. Temple was sprawled face down on the mats, using a free hand to tap out of the hold Cipher had her in, her other arm bent painfully across her back.

 

“Again,” Cipher ordered as she released her and stepped back. Her eyes flicked briefly to meet Vector's as he sat down beside Lokin, helping himself to the proffered snack, but a more satisfying welcome would have to wait.

 

“Sir, if I might ask,” Temple rose, panting, “can't I just do as you do? Keep distance, and snipe?”

 

“You could. But a sniper isn't the only type of Agent, and even if it were, you shouldn't underestimate the importance of knowing how to fight hand-to-hand. Knowing these moves – _really_ knowing them – might be the difference between succeeding in your mission and succeeding at getting dead. Now,” Cipher raised her hands, palms open and loose, into a guard stance. “Again.”

 

Temple shook the numbness out of her arms, and sailed in – and found herself face down on the mat once more.

 

“Again,” Cipher ordered. “Until you get it.”

 

It took her four more tries, but finally, she managed to find the timing of shifting her balance at the critical point, and it was Cipher who ended up on the mats.

 

“Good!” Cipher praised as she stood up. “Now. Again. You've done it once. You need to be able to do it every time. It has to be automatic – a muscle memory. And then you need to be able to do it every time with your jacket on, or whatever you think you want to wear in the field. You can't afford to have an unfamiliar sleeve binding you up and you certainly can't waste time stripping down. So, again.”

 

Vector found himself starting to flinch in sympathy each time either of the two women hit the floor. Raina, exhausted, reached up her tired arms in a weary gesture of victory with a smile that might have been slightly punch drunk. Ten times in a row now, she had thrown Cipher down.

 

“I think I've got it, sir,” she panted, turning aside to reach for her canteen. Temple was shocked as Cipher kicked out from her prone position, sweeping her legs out from under her, and she slammed heavily to the mats. Cipher was on her in a flash, pinning her in a hold that made her eyes water.

 

“Ow! Sir!” Temple gasped in painful protest.

 

“If you were in the field,” Cipher cautioned, her voice low and steel-edged, “you would now be dead. That is exactly how fast things can change. Never, under any circumstances, turn your back on your enemy until you have verified your kill.”

 

“But you're not my enemy, you're my boss!” Temple exclaimed.

 

“Your boss _is_ your enemy, Temple,” Cipher pointed out, and Vector at least could see her solemn gravity, whether or not Temple was yet familiar enough with Cipher to be able to recognize it. “This is probably the most important advice I can give you. You will learn faster from an enemy than you will from a friend. An enemy will teach you your flaws and your weaknesses and your failings with a thoroughness you will find no where else. Imperial Intelligence will find those weaknesses and either eradicate them, or exploit them. It is what they are best at. Never imagine you are exempt from this. Imperial Intelligence is both your greatest ally and your greatest enemy. Don't forget it.”

 

Cipher released her hold, and sat back on her heels as Temple slowly pulled her aching limbs to her torso, gathering herself gingerly before attempting to stand. “I won't, sir.”

 

“So endeth the lesson,” Lokin commented aside to Vector. Temple pushed herself up from the mat.

 

“When I'm not here,” Cipher instructed, “take time to spar with Kaliyo. She knows at least two or three dozen dirty moves, and you'd do well to learn them, too. In the field, there is no such thing as a fair fight. There are either fights you win, or fights you lose. You are only allowed to lose one fight, and that is the fight in which you will die.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Temple nodded, wincing as she limped off the mat to sink down on a crate. “My father used to tell me the same thing. He was a Cipher, too.”

 

Cipher looked at her in surprise. “He was?”

 

“Yes, I knew him,” Lokin interposed. “Cipher Three – we even worked together a few times. Lost touch some years ago, after I retired, but he was a fine operative. Very skilled. Raina, we should swap stories some time!”

 

“I'd like that, Doctor,” Temple replied, taking a long gulp from her canteen.

 

Cipher filed that bit of information away for further inspection later. Somehow, she had come to a fatalistic conclusion that there would always be something standing between her and Vector: work, Intelligence, politics, brainwashing, responsibilities... But were these all just so many excuses? If they were all wiped away tomorrow, would she and Vector still persist in this perpetual circling about each other, like orbiting planets that never drew closer together? It was uncomfortable to consider that might be the case, so some part of her clung to the excuses, so many handy scapegoats, as the only things keeping them apart. And now, brought on board by her very own hand, was proof that somewhere in this vast galaxy, there was an agent who had successfully loved another – who had even had a home life that he had used to raise a child. It seemed, at least, that Imperial Intelligence had not strongly objected. Her curiosity burning, she wondered if she could someday dare risk another visit to the Intelligence Archives to uncover the details of the matter. What, she scolded herself wryly, a foolhardy act that would be!

 

“Kaliyo,” Cipher brought her mind back to the present. “You ready? You can give Temple a demonstration of some of those dirty moves I mentioned. If,” she added saucily, “you think you can get any of them to work on me.”

 

Kaliyo pushed her shoulder off from the wall and sauntered out to the mats. “Ready as ever,” she said, stretching her neck side to side. “Not sure about you, though.”

 

Her mouth twisting in a smirk, Cipher set out her expectations of their rules of engagement. “No holds barred?”

 

“Anything less,” replied Kaliyo, “is for wimps and Rodians.”

 

“You got it.” Instantly, Cipher flew in with a series of pointed jabs below Kaliyo's ribs; the first two took her by surprise, but she recovered her carelessness quickly, blocking the remainder. Temple gaped in astonishment, and realized how much Cipher, in spite of the hard lessons, had been going easy on her. The Chiss and the Rattataki women dug in, their strikes and blocks whirling before her eyes with vicious speed and savage intensity. No punches were pulled; no quarter was given. Temple could see the difference in their fighting styles: Kaliyo was brutal and blunt, overcoming opposition by strength and force, while Cipher was more cautious, blocking more of Kaliyo's attacks and landing her blows less often, but using precision and momentum to ruthless effect. They were well matched.

 

If Cipher had been fresh, and had not just come directly from instructing Temple, it was Vector's opinion that she would have won, although likely not easily. But her earlier work with the Ensign, being flung to the floor repeatedly, had certainly tired her to some degree, and it was beginning to show. The two women were tangled on the floor; Cipher's neck securely clamped in the crook of Kaliyo's elbow with the Rattataki's other hand forcing her head into the chokehold. Cipher's foot, hooked around Kaliyo's knee, pulled her leg painfully aside, with Cipher's weight bearing down through the point of her elbow, driven sharply into the unprotected pressure point of the femoral artery at the top of Kaliyo's inner thigh.

 

“Give up, Agent,” Kaliyo ordered with a grunt of pain.

 

“I was about,” gasped Cipher, choking, “to say the same.”

 

“Fat chance.”

 

“You're going to pass out, Kaliyo.”

 

“Not if you pass out first.”

 

Cipher could see the cargo hold swimming before her eyes, and pressed her weight more deeply into the vulnerable spot, grimly determined. It was a toss up, really, as to which combatant's leverage would be the most effective.

 

“Let's call it a draw,” proclaimed Lokin, “On the count of three, you release.”

 

“Release _on_ three, or one-two-three, _then_ release?” Kaliyo demanded, her voice strangled.

 

“Kaliyo!” Cipher gagged out, fighting the waves of unconsciousness that were lapping at her brain.

 

“Okay, okay, fine!”

 

Lokin counted, and they let go, each collapsing back on the mats, and Cipher sucked in massive gasps of air while Kaliyo flopped aside limply, waiting for her blood pressure to stabilize. For a moment, the cargo hold was silent except for the hum of the ship and the sounds of the pair of them catching their breaths and nursing their hurts.

 

Vector broke the stillness with an offer. “Agent,” he said thoughtfully, “We know of some Killik techniques that may be effective in breaking that hold.”

 

Cipher, sitting up, looked up at him for a moment before answering. Ostensibly, she was still giving herself a few moments to gather herself. Privately, she wanted to take a few seconds to simply look at him. She wanted to know how his mission had gone, and what he had decided to do with Thenoth, but to drop everything and run to him the second he set foot on the ship was – well... a little obvious. She had responsibilities demanding her attention – training Temple, for one, honing her own skills, for another – these old scapegoats that nonetheless always seemed to take precedence.

 

“I'd like to learn those,” she nodded.

 

Kaliyo, picking herself up off the floor, replied, “Yeah? Does it involve growing a couple extra legs?”

 

Vector ignored Kaliyo's rude brashness. “We would be happy to show you.”

 

“Then let's go,” Cipher said, standing up. She hated to admit it, but she knew Kaliyo had had the upper hand in that spar. Cipher had been on the verge of losing – and this just after she had lectured Temple on the penalty of losing a fight. Her pride smarted under the idea.

 

“What, now?” Vector blinked.

 

“No time like the present,” Cipher answered reasonably. “I'm fine.”

 

Moderately bemused, Vector divested himself of his overcoat and accessories, and stepped out to the mats. Knowing that Cipher approached nearly everything before her from a position of logic, he carefully explained the maneuver, pointing out the pivot points where weight would shift, how the physics of momentum came into play, and where to apply the appropriate leverage to break the hold and drop her opponent to the ground. Cipher nodded, mentally relating the move to other techniques she was familiar with, her mind so focused on the mechanics of it that the realization of what would be involved during a practical demonstration was somewhat late in arriving, only dawning on her as Vector stepped into position behind her.  She hesitated.

 

“Ten credits says she can't do it,” Kaliyo smirked to Lokin.

 

“I have faith in our agent!” exclaimed Lokin in response. “I'll take that bet.”

 

As Vector extended his arm over Paha's shoulder to wrap around her neck, it was a tough call to discern which of the pair was more nervous. He mentally tallied the three occasions when he had ever touched her – once when he had found her beside the holoterminal, once when she'd had a troubling dream, and once when she'd been mauled by a wampa – and in the first two cases, she hadn't even been conscious; in the third, barely so. She was fully conscious now, and in full control of her actions, and their first voluntary contact would be one of violence. It was a little disheartening, even as he told himself that what he could teach her now could, someday, mean the difference between life and death for her. But if he could make that difference in her life, then he would teach her whatever he knew. He settled the crook of his elbow around her throat, and she wondered if he could feel the leaping of her pulse in her carotid artery. Of necessity, he stood close behind her, his chest against her back, and as she noticed this, her brain flailed at trying to recall the detailed description he had just finished giving her.

 

“Ready?” he inquired.

 

“Yes,” she answered, and they began. Her first attempt was an unmitigated failure, and Lokin dug a hand in the pocket of his long coat, dropping something into Kaliyo's outstretched hand.

 

“Think she'll get it this time?” Kaliyo asked.

 

“Another ten credits on yes,” answered Lokin. He was wrong, and he imperturbably handed over his forfeit. “Third time's the charm.”

 

It wasn't.

 

“Once more?” Kaliyo challenged. She could see Cipher was starting to get frustrated, and she hoped to exploit that for the benefit of her purse as long as possible.

 

“We can take a break, if you like,” Vector offered. “And can come back to try this again later, when you are fresher.”

 

“No,” Cipher answered without hesitation. Her attraction to Vector was both distracting and hindering her, and she saw with clarity that this would be something she would need to figure out how to handle: if she were distracted and hesitant in the field, she could get the both of them killed. Better learn to handle it here, where there was no danger, unless it was to Doctor Lokin's stash of credits. The reasoning, however, did little against the jangling of her nerves; she could feel a trembling in her hands that she knew had nothing to do with tired muscles, no matter what she tried to fool herself into thinking. For goodness' sake – to think that she had recently accused Kaliyo of behaving like a Nautolan schoolgirl.

 

“No,” she repeated. “Once more. I'll get it this time.”

 

Vector bowed his head in assent, and took his stance again. There were worse things, he had decided, than having his arms about her, at her request, no matter what the capacity or reason.

 

“Fifty credits,” Lokin agreed to Kaliyo.

 

Kaliyo chuckled. “Fine, fine, I'll keep taking your money, old man.”

 

A moment later, Kaliyo, chagrined, handed over the thirty credits she had won, along with twenty of her own, while Vector, stretched his length on the mat, looked up at Cipher, leaning over him with a grin of satisfied victory.

 

“We should make you repeat it until you can get it ten times in a row,” he said, returning the smile, “as you did with Temple.”

 

“Probably,” she replied, extending her hand to pull him up off the floor. He grasped it and stood, his fingertips brushing against hers as he released. “But another day, I think. It's time we got moving. Practice is over for today.”

 

Her assembled crew trickled away, Temple and Kaliyo to clean up, Lokin off to the bridge to set the ship back on course to Quesh. Vector was quick to lend a hand as Cipher hauled the mats aside, returning the room to an ordinary cargo hold once again. He expected she might leave then, too, but she instead seated herself on one of the crates, and pushed back the two narrow draperies of hair that framed her face, like the pointed, slender wings of a falcon in flight. She preferred to keep her hair very short and severely swept back: long hair, she thought, was a liability, too prone to being tangled, to being blown in her face, to being easily grabbed by the handful in a fight. Nonetheless, she still maintained these two straight locks that swept down over her temples in front of her ears, in which she often wore a set of rectangular earrings – minor little touches of femininity she no longer thought about.

 

“So, you're back,” she observed unnecessarily by way of introducing the topic. “Did you find your man?”

 

“Yes, we spoke to the Republic governor. It went better than we expected,” Vector said. He had feared his altered nature had destroyed his ability to negotiate, or to relate to others, but he had found, somewhat to his surprise, that he had been wrong. On the return journey, he had given the matter a great deal of thought, and concluded that his success had been in no small part to Paha's influence and inspiration. If he had attempted this while on Alderaan, or shortly after leaving the Killik nest, he knew he would have failed completely. It was only from Paha's encouragement and support in his efforts to re-humanize himself that he had been able to rediscover the necessary facets of common ground, civility, and diplomacy that had enabled and empowered him to reach out to others – something that had once come so easily to him. “If you'll join us, we'll report the details to Falner Oeth.”

 

A short time later, showered and dressed, Cipher joined Vector at the holoterminal, where Falner's image sprang at once to life in white and blue.

 

“My friends, it's been too long!” Oeth greeted them, clearly pleased, although it seemed to be founded in a sort of egotistical complacency, rather than in a pleasure of actually speaking with Vector and Cipher.

 

“Falner,” Vector nodded his head in return. “We assume you've heard from Thenoth, then.”

 

“He contacted me from an Imperial transport. Apparently, we promised to work with him,” Oeth waved a hand, his tone sliding into some disapproval. “Not what I requested, but the service can make do.”

 

“There was no need to make him a Joiner,” Vector pointed out quietly, “when he was amenable to discussion.”

 

He was rewarded with the sight of an admiring smile and a song of praise, both from Paha's lips. “You haven't lost your touch as a diplomat after all, Vector,” she said. “Nice work.”

 

“Not entirely, no,” Vector answered. “Thank you, Agent.”

 

“You kept your promise. Thenoth's assistance resulted in my promotion,” Oeth continued. That explained his conceited air of magnanimous approval. “I will keep my promise to you. Some important people are waiting, Vector. They're very interested in a potential Killik alliance.”

 

“You arranged this?” Vector was unable to keep the surprise from his voice. Cipher had expected Oeth to renege on their arrangement, and it seemed that Vector had suspected that was a likely outcome as well. He wondered if he should perhaps amend his opinion of Oeth.

 

“As soon as I knew we could work together,” Oeth answered. “Check the data I'm streaming to your main console.”

 

“Thank you, Falner,” Vector said, gratified. “Excuse us a moment, agent.”

 

As soon as Vector was out of earshot, the Zabrak diplomat's face curled in disgust.

 

“It's like talking to a bug wearing a man's skin. I don't know how you stand it,” he sneered.

 

Cipher bristled, but kept her voice calm. “Vector is a brave man, and a loyal Imperial. He is also my friend.”

 

Oeth gaped in astonishment. “You can't be serious! Those creatures are anathema to everything the Empire stands for. There's no place for great men in a hive mind – only animal instinct. I'll be relieved when you people finish this scheme and get rid of the Colony for good.”

 

You people?  Get rid of? Paha felt ice in her stomach as she switched off the holo. Just what was Oeth planning? What did Oeth think they were trying to accomplish? She turned away from the holoterminal and hurried away to find Vector.

 

He was staring at the console, struck with wonder at what he read there, and the face he raised to Paha's as she entered was illuminated in disbelieving satisfaction. “Agent,” he marveled, “They listened. They don't understand yet, but they listened. The Diplomatic Service has requested my aid, and wants to initiate relations with the Colony.”

 

Paha hated the idea of ruining that unallayed enthusiasm, but Oeth's true colors were too black a thing to conceal.

 

“Vector,” she interrupted urgently, “Vector, listen: Falner Oeth is keeping his deal, but he's repulsed by Killiks. We can't trust him.”

 

Vector paused. He had been too wrapped up in the potentials he had seen unrolling before him to initially notice the concern and trepidation that he saw now swirling through her aura. Her warning was underwritten with earnest worry in her voice.

 

“He admits it?” Vector said uneasily. “We always did get an odd sense from him. This matter is out of his hands now, though – he can't touch it.”

 

“Maybe,” conceded Paha, unconvinced. “You didn't hear him, though. I wouldn't have thought a diplomat would be... so bigoted. Or so vicious.”

 

“Then we should watch him,” Vector agreed. If Cipher found cause for concern, then he would take her instincts seriously. For all that, this still counted as a victory, one he had considered might never come to pass. “But we'll be focused on the future.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Another case of nudging along the physical side of things, sparking up some of that good old fashioned prurient interest.
> 
> 2\. Shades of Ender Wiggin meeting Mazer Rackham, in Cipher's advice to Temple. "Ender's Game" is one of those stories that has stayed with me ever since I first read it.
> 
> 3\. One thing that bugs me about the current comic book/sci-fi/apocalyptic tv shows and movies are the number of women who run around with long hair, never tied back. How do they wash it, or brush it? How do they fight with it blowing in their face all the time? Won't these long-haired vixens feel stupid when they are eaten by a zombie because their flowing locks got tangled in a shrub? When the apocalypse happens, the first thing I'm doing is hacking off all my hair down to the roots.


	9. The First Break

"What an ugly, ominous planet," Cipher murmured from the ramp of the transport ship from Quesh Orbital Station. "I never thought I'd come back here. I certainly hoped I wouldn't."

 

Vector, standing at her shoulder, didn't answer; she almost seemed to be speaking to herself. He did not share her extraordinary dread, but he was keenly aware of hers, gnawing away at her peace of mind and any serenity that might have once tinted her aura. Serenity – that was an odd choice of word; but he had seen it there sometimes past, like the night of the celebration of the Lost Colony, and hints of it on occasion in calm moments in the cargo hold. Outwardly, she appeared in control now, but there was no mistaking the uneasiness that suffused the field around her.

 

She set her teeth. She had beaten this planet once. She would beat it again. In a way, her decision, at last, to have Vector accompany her was an act of defiance, a challenge to the dream that had persisted in haunting her. Cipher considered that this might have been a stupid thing to do, or perhaps, something done for a stupid reason. In her last communication with Imperial Intelligence, Keeper had asked if the stress was getting to her. What could she say? Yes? It wasn't like she could be pulled out of this mission now. She was in far too deep, and Kothe would never permit in a new face at this late stage of the game. That was, at least, one rational reason for Vector's presence: Kothe already knew Vector, and wouldn't be alarmed at the appearance of the new face of either Lokin or Temple. Truth was, foreboding dream or no, she felt better knowing Vector was nearby. If she were about to die, it would be a comfort if his was the last friendly face she saw.

 

During their brief conversation, Keeper, perhaps guessing at Cipher's strained faculties and looking to refocus her, had again stressed the important objective of Cipher's mission: determine the goals of the SIS, and kill Ardun Kothe. If Kothe's endgame were here on Quesh, then Watcher X's serum had better start acting a little more quickly. Cipher didn't relish the notion of telling Keeper that Kothe was alive and well because he had used the codeword Imperial Intelligence had conditioned her with to demand his survival. It wouldn't be her fault, but she would still be blamed.

 

While Vector couldn't know the internal debate Cipher had held with herself regarding his presence, he nonetheless kept a close watch on the troubled song he could hear her wordlessly singing, and was thankful she had asked him to accompany her. To have sat behind on the ship, waiting and fretting, would have been a torture. Even his own personal goal of the Imperial-Killik alliance was out of his hands, for the time-being. Daizanna of the Iesei nest had sent him a message, indicating that there had been a wary but peaceful exchange of presents between the Imperial Diplomatic Service and the Killiks, and both sides exhibited interest in continuing the tentative friendship.

 

Daizanna was a cheerful person – friendly and open in a way that Vector was not, even as a human. In his human life, he had found his greatest success in the Diplomatic Service in the crafting of carefully measured responses, neither judgmental nor officious, relating to others neither by domineering nor toadying, but extending gracious civility to all without preference, and that learned restraint had only increased when he had Joined. Daizanna was not so fettered: she would be free with her welcomes in a very human-like manner, which would serve to make the Killiks more approachable. Even if she were untrained, she was as much an ambassador as he himself was.

 

Which was well – not only for her, the Killiks, and the Empire, but also for him, as it allowed him the freedom to continue here, at Cipher's side on this planet she held such unaccountable loathing for.

 

When they reached the coordinates designated by Kothe, Cipher dialed in on her holocommunicator. The unwelcome image of Hunter sprang up in miniature before her eyes.

 

“Legate,” Hunter greeted with his usual smarmy leer, “Nice to see you outside Hoth. Little color in the air brings out your eyes.”

 

“I was expecting Ardun Kothe,” Cipher answered, ignoring the disagreeable compliments.

 

“He'll chime in presently. Hunter to deck. Report in,” Hunter replied. At least the mission was pressing enough to keep Hunter from continuing his usual spiel of tripe.

 

The holographic was replaced with the image of a young Twi'lek woman, another member of Ardun's team that Cipher had met earlier.

 

“Code name Saber in position,” she reported. “Good to see you, Legate.”

 

The holo switched to the droid who often handled computer work for Ardun's team. “Code name Wheel, ready for operations.”

 

Then Ardun Kothe himself appeared on the holo next, saying, “I'll be in position shortly. It's good to see you together as a team. Too many solo jobs, nowadays.

 

“But now we're together for the most important job we've ever done. We're here for a weapon – one that can stop this war.”

 

The veil of secrecy was parting at last, and Cipher held her tongue, eagerly awaiting the details.

 

“Over a decade ago,” Kothe continued, “Colonel Omas of Republic Special Forces assembled a team of the galaxy's greatest scientists. The scientists, led by Nasan Godera, were instructed to design a weapon capable of turning back the Imperial threat. They created a “Shadow Arsenal” of missiles – cloaked from detection and more powerful than any made before.”

 

Hunter – egotistically never one for being left out of a conversation too long, thought Cipher accusingly – chimed in to add the next details. “Colonel Omas died at the Battle of Hoth. Nasan Godera moved on to other things. Everyone assumed the Shadow Arsenal was never completed. But it was. Nasan Godera built the Shadow Arsenal on Quesh, then concealed it in a fit of conscience. Without the colonel to lead them, the scientists decided the weapon was too destructive. Godera called it 'catastrophic.' He wiped out all records.”

 

“That's why,” interposed Kothe, “you all have been running around the galaxy. The Ultrawave Transmitter had Nasan Godera's weapon activation codes hidden within it. Colonel Omas's shuttle, the _Starbreeze_ , led us to this star system.”

 

“And the assault on Mon Gazza?” inquired Saber, “Wheel and I – ”

 

“...Gave us one more key,” Kothe finished. Cipher noted he didn't specify what that key was – apparently, Kothe still didn't trust his team enough to allow them to have all the pieces together at once – or at least, Kothe didn't trust _her_. “There are two hundred missiles in the Shadow Arsenal,” Kothe continued. “It only takes one to destroy Kaas City. Threat alone should make the Sith surrender.”

 

“It's _that_ powerful?” Cipher asked. Privately, she didn't think that a missile threat would have any effect on the Dark Council whatsoever. Sure, some of the frailer Sith might cave to the pressure, but many more would see it eagerly as a challenge. As for the Dark Council – well, just one alone of their number had slaughtered hundreds of thousands of loyal Imperial civilians entirely on his own volition. The Dark Council members would hardly bat an eyelash on any one of their twisted faces. But her mission wasn't to point out the flaws in Kothe's logic, it was information and assassination. “How?”

 

These, at least, were details Kothe was willing to share. “Each one has a cloaking device, a short-range hyperdrive, and a warhead with a kick. The ultimate first strike weapon.”

 

First strike? Cipher noted the choice of words. That certainly implied that Kothe wasn't going to stop at using “threat alone” to force the Sith to surrender. It sounded as though he had already made up his mind to use the Shadow Arsenal for its lethal purpose, with or without a warning.

 

“The missiles,” Kothe continued, “are still inside the old manufacturing complex – two square kilometers of factories and tunnels.”

 

“Sealed up, but still intact,” offered Hunter. “The scientists couldn't bear to destroy their work, so they built defenses fifty years ahead of Republic standards.”

 

“We're going to secure the facility,” Kothe ordered. “I'll bring in the shuttle and locate the Shadow Arsenal.”

 

Hunter again took over the briefing, leading Cipher to wonder just whose operation this really was. Hunter seemed to be doing more of the directing, and Kothe, saying little more than exposition, seemed awfully accepting of Hunter throwing his weight around. “Saber, take out the main batteries. Wheel, see what you can do with the main computer. Legate, you'll penetrate the structure at these coordinates. Bypass the droids and lower the facility shields so our shuttle can land.”

 

Hunter may have been issuing the orders, but Kothe had the last word: “May the Force be with us, my friends. Ending linkup.”

 

Kothe had the last word? Evidently not. Hunter again took control, with a final targeted message. “And Legate? In case you had any doubts – keyword: onomatophobia. You will lower the shields. And the Shadow Arsenal will be ours.”

 

As was his habit, Vector had withdrawn to a distance just out of earshot as she talked to Kothe's team, but he observed Cipher minutely throughout the conversation, keeping an eye on the changing characters chiming in on her holocommunicator. Her aura slouched about her impassively, varying little under the appearance of that dullness that he had come to fear was a permanent change, but there was no mistaking the sudden flare of irritation and bright anger that struggled for dominance when Hunter spoke. Vector had a faint prior sense that Cipher disliked Hunter, but was only now on the verge of fathoming that there were here the depths of some implacable grudge that Cipher nursed against Hunter, and while he didn't know the major cause of her aversion, he felt a vague sensation of approval, for reasons too nebulous to explain. That Cipher reserved her more extreme hatred for Hunter, and not Kothe, was an observation of interest, but one he knew neither its possible causes nor its possible ramifications.

 

Cipher beckoned him to approach as the holo went dark, then again sprang to life a moment later with a tiny topographic map, dotted with large warehouse-like structures. She pointed to a certain droplet of light on the map.

 

"Here," she indicated, "this is where we are to enter." She went on to brief him on the plan, business-like and capable as usual, but Vector thought he detected some element of distraction in her demeanor, when her focus was more critical now than it had ever been. It was difficult to get a true idea of the compound from the holo's map projection, but Cipher couldn't shake a strange feeling of faint, foreboding familiarity as she looked at it. Just her keyed up imagination again? She pushed the feeling away, knowing she could little afford the distraction, in spite of the trust she usually placed in her instincts. Under these circumstances, and under someone else's control, it was a luxury she could not indulge this time.

 

They set out, covering ground quickly, but it was not until they had fought their way through the first line of droid sentries and penetrated the compound's defenses that Cipher, with a shiver of awful realization that left her nauseated, recognized both the location and its importance. The walls that stretched above her head now were the imprisoning walls of her dream. As she observed the massive suppression droids patrolling the property on their tripods of mechanical legs, she knew she had at last walked into the nightmare she had fearfully dodged all this time.

 

And there was nothing she could do about it. She couldn't turn tail and run; she had too little control over her own decisions and too much was riding on her to complete her mission. Too many lives were at stake. Hers. Vector's. The entire populace of the capital of the Empire. Even without the compulsion of the codeword, Cipher had no choice but to press forward, even as it meant she was pressing towards her own death. Run, and die a coward and a failure, or finish this, and die with the hope that someone, someday, would remember her for it. Vector would.

 

As the droid detected their presence, Cipher automatically raised her rifle in one smooth motion and began firing. This wasn't going to be a sneak-and-run mission, this was a hit-'em-fast-and-hard mission; she could hear an alarm far in the distance indicating Saber and Wheel were already at work. The whole compound was likely on alert by now. No particular need for delicacy. She whittled away at the droid's protective armor plating with high-energy bolts as Vector used a combination of blunt force and the charge in his electrostaff to overwhelm the droid's systems, hammering it until it collapsed.

 

“All good?” Cipher asked as Vector returned his staff to its accustomed place on his shoulder.

 

“We were about to ask you the same,” he replied.

 

“Saber to deck,” chirped a female voice in Cipher's earpiece. “These droids are nasty. Can we take some of them home along with the missiles?”

 

“Mistress Saber,” Wheel's measured mechanical tones returned, “you're going to make me feel unwanted.”

 

“Watch the banter,” Kothe warned, directing their attentions to their tasks. “But... it's not a bad idea.”

 

Cipher frowned, and hoped Saber wasn't really going to take that as permission. One more complication she didn't need! She dug in behind a crate to begin her assault on another droid, aiming her shots around Vector with meticulous care; a second droid emerged abruptly around the corner of a wall, already firing heavily.

 

“Vector!” she shouted a warning that she knew already was too late as the droid pummeled him viciously with chemical rounds.

 

Vector gave a small cry that sounded like, “Agent!” but Cipher's blood was roaring in her ears in an adrenaline-fueled rush of anger and fear, too loud for her to hear clearly. She darted out from her cover, flinging out a handful of small flight-capable mechanical tracers, a countermeasure to confuse the droid's sensors and allow her the chance to plunge her vibroblade through a hole Vector's electrostaff had made in the droid's armor, straight into a layer of exposed circuitry. The droid jerked violently, and Cipher yanked the blade back and stabbed again. The droid twitched again, then slumped over, a few of the servos still buzzing and humming in futility.

 

Cipher didn't give it a second look. She had once advised Temple to be sure of her kill before turning her back on a fallen enemy, but she made an exception this time, and she dropped to her knees beside Vector, a medpack already in her hands. Vector opened his eyes a moment later, and took a deep breath as he sat up.

 

“That was... close,” he observed. He had rubbed shoulders with death more than once in his life – admittedly, it seemed to be far more often now that he was part of this most unlikely adventure about the galaxy alongside this woman – but he was a little thrown by the sight of Cipher's face, ash-gray with concern, peering anxiously into his own, surrounded in an aura of mingled trepidation and determination.

 

“Here,” she said, handing over two more medpacks. “Use them. Right away – don't save them and try to continue on injured.”

 

He nodded as he took them, “Yes, it's too great a risk to be anything other than our best out here.”

 

As Vector recovered, Wheel chimed in on the linked intercom. “Interface terminal located. Deactivating blast door seals. You should have a clear path, Legate.”

 

“Thanks,” she replied laconically. Clear, sure. Except for all the droids. She knew it was stupid, but she kept expecting the next one would be sporting the horror of the empty, fleshless skin of the face of the Minister of Intelligence. Nothing but a night terror! _Focus, Cipher,_ she told herself severely. She couldn't afford another sloppy and stupid error again – failing to check around a corner! Was she suddenly a rube? But the danger had made them sharper, shrewder, and stronger; they learned lessons in the weaknesses of the droids from the errors they had made in their first confrontations, and the next war droid collapsed with something like ease.

 

Their progress fell into a tense rhythm of move on, fight, recover, move on – the Song of the Hunter, perhaps, that Vector sometimes referenced. Even the mechanics of taking down the droids, now that they had had the practice to learn the speediest and most efficacious method, took on a pattern of repetition in a way that gave Cipher some tiny glimmer of hope. Perhaps there was a chance of survival after all. Prophetic dreams! She had never believed in such a thing before – why start now?

 

They had entered the security warehouse that held the terminals controlling the compounds shields; it was well they hadn't been longer delayed by the droids. Hunter spoke over the comm channel in Cipher's ear. “Reading an ion buildup. I need to bring the shuttle down now. Legate, Saber, it's all up to you.”

 

“No choice,” Watcher X's voice suddenly interrupted in Cipher's head. If his presence were real, it seemed he was as loath to allow Kothe his victory as Cipher was. “Deactivate it.” She felt the compulsion of Hunter's codeword forcing her hands towards the computers. Watcher X was right – she had no choice. Unable to prevent the shuttle from landing, she hoped she was not watching her one opportunity squander itself away beneath her own fingers.

 

Tapping through the console readouts, Cipher found the shutdown protocol and executed it; she was instantly rewarded with the unmistakable sound of the shield generators spinning down, and she called up Kothe's team on the comm channel.

 

“This is Legate. Shields are down. The shuttle is clear to land.”

 

“And Saber did her part,” answered Kothe. "We'll have the Shadow Arsenal on board and headed for Republic space within the hour. You're going to hold position here – protect the controls until we're gone.”

 

Her earlier suspicion, when he had refused to comment on the key provided by Saber and Wheel's mission on Mon Gazza, was instantly confirmed. “You mean you are getting rid of me. You don't trust me, or want me anywhere near your missiles.”

 

Watcher X's assessment was much the same. “They don't need you anymore,” he whispered to her mind.

 

“You've done your part,” Kothe replied firmly. “There's no reason to make you face this. Legate, this is goodbye for now. Go back to Imperial Intelligence, shore up your contacts. We'll be in touch in a few months.”

 

A few months? During which time, Kaas City might be wiped off the face of the planet.  Hell, for that matter, she might be actually at Imperial Intelligence when Kothe decided to shell the city.  Maybe he was hoping for that.  She almost laughed; Kothe's veneer of concern for making her face anything was ludicrous in light of what she faced in reality.

 

Kothe wasn't taking any chances. Perhaps Cipher's accusation had struck a nerve, or raised a red flag a little higher. He invoked the codeword that would ensure her obedience. “Hold position,” he ordered. “Keyword: onomatophobia. And thank you.”

 

Was the gratitude ironic? The tone of Kothe's voice had almost seemed sincere, but either way, it made her furious, and disgusted that in the end, she was still trapped here, powerless, in spite of her efforts, in spite of her rage, and in spite of Watcher X's chemical solution.

 

“They're going to win,” Watcher X said, appearing on a nearby chair, “Now we're out of time.”

 

“I'm following your plan here,” she charged, “The serum was supposed to break my programming. I thought I'd be free by now. What's gone wrong?”

 

“Nothing has gone wrong. The IX serum has been eating at you since you injected it,” Watcher X replied. “Carving neural pathways. Bleaching your brain. It isn't finished, but it will have to suffice. We're going to rewrite your programming. New commands, new keyword, no outside control. Are you ready?”

 

Was she ready? She had been ready since she had first learned she had been programmed. It didn't matter the risk; there was no time to await a better moment. Cipher could only hope that they hadn't waited too long already.

 

“I'm ready. Do it.”

 

As Watcher X stood up to began, Cipher wondered how he knew how to initiate the programming. Long before, as Cipher lay on the deck of her ship, he had said he didn't recognize the brainwashing technique. Maybe he had gleaned this from suppressed memories of her initial programming, buried far within her mind. Maybe he had seen something in her visit to the Intelligence Archives that she had overlooked. Maybe it didn't matter. She would conquer this, or she would be dead. There was no middle ground, and no place for retreat.

 

“Thesh protocol, phase one,” said Watcher X. “New keyword: iconoclasm.”

 

“Keyword accepted,” Cipher was startled to hear her own voice, speaking on its own. “Thesh protocol engaged.”

 

“Now you have access,” Watcher X explained. “You can force your mind and body to obey a new program. Tell me what you want.”

 

Paha suddenly found herself hesitating. This wasn't what she had expected, this open-ended choice that lay spread before her now. The obvious preference was to demand freedom from all things that might exert an influence on her mind and free will: Jedi tricks, brainwashing serums, hallucinations of long-dead targets – but a strange and unaccountable thought sprang unbidden onto the stage of options in front of her. She might not always be a field agent; if she did not die in the line of duty, she might some day be able to retire, like Doctor Lokin. It was one of the first times since the discovery of her programming and the sinister dream that had followed it that she gave any real thought to her future, or considered the potential that she could have one. It was born of that eerie flutter of hope that had struck her when she and Vector had not only survived the war droids, but had joined their strengths to take them down with ruthless speed and efficiency.

 

Did that mean she now had a future? A future that might be, in part or in whole, outside of Imperial Intelligence? A future that might, with a breathless thrill, be shared with Vector? And what if, one day, she decided to become a Joiner among the Killiks alongside Vector? Would her choice now prevent that from ever being able to occur? What an outlandish line of thinking, pursuing such remote what-ifs and maybes and perhapses, all arrayed in the finery of optimistic conditionals! There was no logic to such an erratic course – but yet, these indeterminate wishes flowed unrestrained among the more immediate and dire demands on her attention. After all, in her line of work, there could one day be a time when, for her own safety, or the safety of the Empire, she might need to have some information stricken from her own memory. The notion was revolting, but she had long ago discovered that she didn't often deal with black and white absolutes.

 

Well. So she wouldn't demand perfect autonomy in perpetuity. What else could she wish for? She thought back to the inadequate explanation she had given Vector in Kroius' lab, the first time they had visited Quesh. “To make me better,” she had said then. And that was it. To be better than she was – faster, stronger, more skilled – with these tools at her command, she could ensure that she would have the ability to keep that nightmare from coming to pass, once and for all.

 

“Push me past my limits,” she said, her deliberations at an end. “I want to go beyond what this body is capable of. No more pain or exhaustion.”

 

“Dangerous,” Watcher X said, considering. He also sounded faintly admiring. “Interesting. Embed limit break commands. Keyword activate from user only. Accept no outside orders.”

 

Cipher again heard her voice parroting back the language. “Limit break commands embedded. Accepting no further orders.”

 

“Revert to phase zero,” finished Watcher X. “You're free now. Time for me to go. But Agent, stop the SIS. Find out how they obtained Imperial brainwashing codes. There are truths you need to know.”

 

It wasn't a command, it was a request. Watcher X's last request, as his final vestiges faded at last from the galaxy, and from her mind. There was a light in her eyes as his form evanesced, and in the place where he had been was now Vector, his eyes dark pits in the light, looking intent and concerned.

 

“Agent – are you alright?” his face came into focus, surprisingly close to her own, and his hand raised as if he had been about to touch her to recall her to herself. “You disappeared on us.”

 

Paha blinked once or twice. “Yes,” she said at last. The heavy weight that had been anchoring her mind was gone, and she felt an unaccustomed lightness, almost a giddiness, in its absence. “I am...” she paused, still getting her bearings, reacquainting herself with the feeling of her own mind and person, unfettered at last. “I am better than I've been in a long time.”

 

“Yes,” he slowly agreed. “We think you are. Your aura is different. Brighter.”

 

She was aware Vector was scrutinizing her closely. He had been confused and apprehensive at her sudden absent-mindedness at this critical point in their mission – had Kothe or Hunter said or done something else to her over the intercom that he had been unable to hear? There were war songs among the Killiks; one of the most angry was the Song of the Avenger, and as he had observed the way Kothe and Hunter used Cipher, he had begun to hear strains of it in his own soul. He reminded himself that Kothe and Hunter were on a mission, no different from the position Cipher and he were in, and that they were equally as driven to see it to its conclusion by any means, just as Cipher and he were. But that reminder didn't make his own reaction any less personal.

 

But before he had fully reacted to Cipher's vacancy, there appeared an extraordinary and monumental struggle that seemed to pervade her entire person all at once, convulsing her aura in a manner that alarmed him, accompanied with an awful dread that for a moment, he could hear no song from her at all. It was as though she were suddenly dead on her feet, every trace of her – her spirit, her intelligence, her private warmth and her public coldness, her determination, her passions – everything that made her _Paha_ – had been wiped clean away, like a droid being reprogrammed. He had stepped towards her then, fainthearted with dismay, about to grab her in a wild attempt to call her back to herself, when her aura burst forth, unhindered and radiant.  He spoke then, instead of touched. 

 

“We're glad to see you back,” he said simply. There was so much more he wanted to say – but once again, he was restrained by the total unsuitability of their circumstances.

 

“Thank you,” she answered. He deserved to know, she thought, but it would have to be later, when all of this was over. “I'll fill you in, sometime. For now, follow my lead. We have a mission to complete.”

 

With a nod, he followed her – her steps seemed lighter, he felt that his were, too – deeper into the deadly labyrinth.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I was secretly delighted by the revelation of what Kothe's objective finally was. What better conflict than to have someone obtaining and using a doomsday weapon against someone who has been involved in the use of a doomsday weapon? My Cipher opted to kill Jadus at the expense of hundreds of thousands of Imperial lives - I was pretty stunned to have it play out, in fact, exactly the way the game dialogue said it would, complete with hearing the screams of the citizens as they died. I had figured there would be some last-minute trick I could employ to both save the people and kill Jadus, but there was none. It was absolutely chilling, and I applaud the game writers for it. It had a major effect on the development of my character, pushing her more towards the light side of neutrality, rather than "neutral-slightly dark."
> 
> 2\. At least twice on Quesh, Hunter or Kothe use the codeword in full earshot of Agent companions. It could be argued that at this point, they are so close to their goal that they are less cautious about openly using it. I still felt it better to have Vector stand aside, unaware still of the codeword use.
> 
> 3\. Most have probably noticed by now that I am not following conversation choices with 100% faithfulness. A few reasons for this: I didn't keep a record of the exact dialogue that results from various choices, and now I am going back and trying to reconstruct the wording based on uploaded video of other people's characters, some of whom made different choices than I did. This means I have to make some stuff up. Second, there were times I was torn between two choices, or would have used one choice as a follow-up to the option I ended up taking. Certain questions, for example, that just would have made sense to ask. Some of the responses I wrote here are combinations of a few conversation options. Finally, because of the nature of some of the dialogue options and responses, there are sometimes rather abrupt segues from one phrase or topic to another. I tried smoothing some of these out a little. 
> 
> 4\. I actually spent a REALLY long time deliberating between the options for the brainwash-breaking scene. In terms of game play, it probably doesn't make a massive difference in the story arc, but Bioware has excelled in this game at presenting players with options that really entice you (should you so choose) to give serious thought to a character's personality and desires. Oh, Bioware, you know the way to this gamer girl's little heart, indeed.
> 
> 5\. The choice of companions for the Agent story line was brilliant (at least it was for me in the context of my own character's story). Aside from the parallels and contrasts to Vector's story, there is Kaliyo, who is loyal to nothing, as another perfect foil to Agent, who is generally designed to be loyal to the Empire. Between Lokin, Temple, and Agent, there is a full scale of Intelligence expertise: the novice, the Agent in prime condition, and the retiree, a personification of a possible happy future retirement for Agent, should Agent survive that long. I haven't finished the story line yet, so my interactions with SCORPIO so far consist of "she's trying to kill me." I'm sure I can draw a parallel from that much, if nothing else.


	10. The Second Break

Cipher and Vector, working their way through the corridors and tunnels that led to where Kothe was liberating the Shadow Arsenal, almost stumbled over Saber and Wheel as they held off a group of opposition droids; Wheel had been severely damaged.

 

“Legate?” Saber said in surprise. “I thought you were supposed to be at the shield controls?”

 

“Ardun changed his mind. He asked me for backup,” Cipher lied with ease. “Why are you two here?”

 

“I didn't hear anything over the comm about that,” Saber replied, a little suspicious. “We're on our way to the sublevels. Hunter thinks there might be a master switch for the defenses.”

 

“I didn't hear anything over the comm about that, either,” Cipher pointed out. To her, it looked like this was just one more handy excuse to keep another part of the team away from the final objective, leaving the missiles solely in the hands of Kothe and Hunter. _And_? Or was it instead _or_? “So I guess our masters aren't telling either of us all the details. Ardun needs me in there, not sitting on the sidelines. You and I both know that.”

 

“Huh,” Saber nodded. “He does like to play cautious, when it comes to his people. Can't stand to see anyone hurt.”

 

“You can't continue like this. Get Wheel out of here. We've cleared the corridors behind us,” Cipher offered. “You should have no trouble escaping.”

 

“Thanks,” replied Saber. “Get moving. Master Kothe thinks we can end the war, then let's end the war.”

 

As they left Saber and Wheel behind them, Cipher felt a pang. Saber was right: Kothe did care about his people. He might be cautious, suspicious even, when it came to Cipher – and did he not have good reason? Was he not correct? – but he had shown concern for her more than once that had been genuine – or had been an extremely good imitation of it. But then, his team were his assets, and good assets at that. And a good operative never squandered good assets. She could have killed Saber and Wheel, she realized, but she was a good operative as well – and Saber and Wheel were good assets. Maybe one day, they would have a use. Kothe, however, was another story. Her mission was to kill him; part of her regretted the necessity: he was talented, and if he had been in the Empire, he would have risen far in the Intelligence world. She knew he would never change sides, but she could admire his skill. Another part of her, reviled by his use of control over her, assured her that he deserved death. She didn't know yet which option she would choose.

 

They found Kothe in one of the massive cavernous warehouses that were stuffed to bursting with a jumbled array of supplies, armaments, and abandoned projects. There was enough Republic tech in here to keep the scientists at Imperial Intelligence busy for years. But Cipher passed by these things to where Kothe, cursing slightly over the controls, had just dropped the locking shield that was all that stood between him and the lethal pile of missiles that made up the Shadow Arsenal.

 

“Legate,” he said, tilting his head, but not fully turning around. “I thought I felt you. You're supposed to be back at the shields – I see,” he added, knowledge dawning in his voice. “You're free, aren't you?”

 

“Yes,” Cipher answered directly. “Your keyword won't work anymore.”

 

“What I did to you was unforgivable. But I did it anyway,” Kothe admitted, and Cipher couldn't help but respect him for the unapologetic confession. He made the best use he could of the advantages he had at his disposal. She would not have done less. Vector's dark eyes darted between the two as the import of the words he had just heard sank in; an illuminating beam of understanding washed over his thoughts of the dullness that had masked Cipher's aura and the recollection of a dozen unusual things he had overheard or observed in her manner. Kothe had had some hold over her, that much was clear, but to what extent? How much had he manipulated her? How much had Cipher's behavior been affected by it, either professionally or personally? And – what did that mean for the two of them?

 

“An Imperial Intelligence defector...” Kothe continued, “just when I needed one! I couldn't risk it being a lie.”

 

“This is the end of your mission, Kothe,” Cipher replied. “It has failed. You are not getting the Shadow Arsenal.”

 

“No, I don't believe that,” Kothe asserted. “I've seen you work; I've seen your spirit. You belong with us, in the Republic, not in the Empire!”

 

“No, Kothe,” Cipher said calmly. “My loyalty is to the Empire. It always has been.”

 

“Legate, you've shown me your true face. Now let me show you mine. Before Ardun Kothe the SIS chief, there was a better man. A Jedi Knight who couldn't live up to the code. That Jedi can't live in a world of shadows... but maybe he can still save the galaxy.” As he spoke, he drew the hilt of a lightsaber from behind his back. He ignited it now, the blue blade leaping to life with a buzzing hum.

 

“And now the other shoe drops,” Cipher murmured. “I might have guessed. I think I did guess, on some level. I shouldn't be surprised, though, to find that the Jedi are just as dirty as the Sith.”

 

“They're not. That's why I couldn't do it anymore, Legate. But I can do this. I can use the Shadow Arsenal to destroy the Empire for good.”

 

"Don't do this, Ardun," Cipher warned. She hadn't counted on pleading with him, but now she thought it worth the try. He had been a Jedi; their belief in the sanctity of life had to count for something. "You're a good man – I've seen that you care about people. Don't turn your back on that now. You're talking about murdering hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians!"

 

"And how many civilians were murdered on Coruscant?" he countered readily.

 

"Then this is about revenge, and has been all along? How can a Jedi use that for justification?" Cipher demanded. "For the wholesale slaughter of the elderly -"

 

"Who once were soldiers of the Empire," Kothe interrupted.

 

"- and of the infirm -"

 

"Who were injured as soldiers of the Empire."

 

"- and of the children?" Cipher pressed on.

 

"Who will grow up to be soldiers of the Empire!" Kothe reasoned.

 

"For goodness sake, man, listen to yourself!” Cipher cried. “How can you talk so casually about genocide? You were a Jedi! You still are! Doing this, using this weapon, it will change you forever! Even just thinking of using it has changed you!"

 

Ardun eyed her thoughtfully as she argued. "You speak, Legate," he mused, "as if you have some personal experience with this."

 

"Maybe I do! Doesn't that make me that much more worth listening to?"

 

"There were reports that came in to SIS a short while back,” Kothe considered, pacing cautiously without breaking eye contact with Cipher. “Something about the Empire using orbital stations to massacre hundreds of thousands of their own people. Rumor had it there was a rogue Sith involved, but there was an idea that pointed to an Imperial Intelligence op. Don't tell me that was you? What was it, some strike against your own people that you were to pin on the Republic to incite the Imperial citizens to cry for war? And _you_ mean to lecture _me_? I shouldn't be surprised, given what the Empire is."

 

"How is what you are doing right now going to make the Republic any better than the Empire?"

 

"I stoop to the level of the Empire so that the remainder of the Republic will not have to."

 

Cipher shook her head, aghast. First Ki Sazen, now Ardun Kothe. Didn't the Jedi Council ever keep track of the mental health status of the members of their order? Imperial Intelligence psychologists monitored their agents closely. There seemed to be no oversight among the Jedi at all! How could the Jedi Masters have let this man walk away from their path? How could they have let him devolve into this desperate creature? She didn't ask these questions – there were no answers. There wasn't even an answer to the question she did ask: "How can someone be both that naive and that cynical at once?"

 

“It doesn't matter now, Legate,” Kothe shook his head fatalistically, raising his lightsaber.

 

“I suppose not,” Cipher answered, setting her eye to her rifle, aware of Vector drawing his electrostaff at her side. On one hand, he had appreciated Cipher's attempt at a diplomatic resolution. On the other hand, the realization of what Kothe had done to Cipher was more nauseating to him than the recollection of Caldin's wandering hands and eyes. Even if he understood on some level that these machinations were a necessary part of the ex-Jedi's mission, he found Kothe repellant and loathsome. Here was yet another man who had exploited her for his own pleasure and his own ends – may he never count himself among that number! 

 

The confrontation was brutal, physically and emotionally. Strikes, shots, and blows were exchanged without clemency expected or mercy given, and Vector relied on all his skill and technique learned from the Killik's unique fighting methods to keep them both alive as Cipher deployed every trick and counterattack she had ever had up her sleeve.

 

With a dismayed cry, Ardun Kothe dropped to his knees, and Vector took his cue from Cipher as she held her fire.

 

"Enough,” gasped Kothe, supporting himself on one hand. “You fight good, Legate – Cipher.”

 

Cipher took a step towards him, debating her next course of action. Ardun Kothe wasn't Ki Sazen.  He wouldn't accept a conversion to the ways and ranks of the Sith, but neither could he walk free.

 

“I don't expect mercy,” Kothe proclaimed. “The Shadow Arsenal was my chance to stop the war... and I failed.”

 

"Kothe, no one should have this technology. Not the Republic, and not the Empire. You know this. I will destroy the Shadow Arsenal, but I won't kill you.” He looked up at her, disbelievingly, and staggered to his feet. “Ardun, I must take you into custody.”

 

“It won't happen,” Kothe shook his head.

 

“You've been beat, Ardun. My orders were to kill you. I will give you your life if you surrender.”

 

“Generous. But you know in an Imperial prison, I will just be tortured for information until my brain is liquified. I've heard the stories of your Darth Baras. I know the Empire's methods.”

 

Cipher made one final attempt. “Surrender, Kothe! Surrender, or I _will_ shoot."

 

Kothe's response was to thrust out his hand in a violent gesture, using the Force to fling Cipher and Vector away from him, then darted backwards into the chamber that held the Shadow Arsenal. Vector fetched up heavily against a stack of crates, and lay there dazedly; Cipher, scrambling to her feet, had a brief, instant impulse to run to him, and with effort she jerked her attention back to Kothe, who had already re-activated the shield that separated the two rooms. Reacting immediately and instinctively, Cipher turned the aim of her sidearm to the control panel on the outside of the shield, firing and destroying the panel and its electronic locking mechanism. The security protocols designed to protect the Shadow Arsenal were still in place; Kothe had to have known that. And now he was trapped.

 

Cipher and Kothe looked at each other through the red translucent barrier of the shield wall, and Cipher could hear the servos in the defense cannons swiveling the guns around to bear on the intruder.

 

"I gave you a choice, Kothe," Cipher said, unable to keep the bitter reproach from her voice. Vector, rising from the floor and coming to stand beside her, could see, at the end, a peaceful acceptance of fate suffuse through the former Jedi.  Ardun Kothe had taken what Cipher had given him, and selected suicide.

 

"I know, Legate," he answered, not looking at the barrels aimed at him from both sides. "I'm sorry I couldn't give you the same."

 

The guns fired then, and Kothe was dead before he hit the floor. The cannons, indifferent to his condition, kept firing, slamming out round after round, pulverizing the floor into a cloud of dust that obscured the sight and would eventually settle on whatever remains might have outlasted the hail of bolts.

 

"I'm sorry, too," Cipher murmured. Vector turned to her; her aura whirled confusingly with a jumble of emotions, too tangled for him to sort through, and both he and she were surprised to note tears standing in her eyes.

 

"You liked him," he observed.

 

Cipher, staring at the cloud before her, thought it over a moment before answering. "I respected him," she clarified eventually. "He was a good leader; he was a good operative. He earned the respect of his team, and paid them in a similar coin. He was more than competent, and he demanded as much of himself as he did anybody else. And... he truly believed in his Republic, and what he was prepared to do for it. That alone deserves some consideration. So I suppose it is fair to say that yes, I did like him." She looked up at Vector. "Not that he had any chance of getting me to defect, of course."

 

"Of course," agreed Vector. It was as fair and fitting a eulogy as Ardun Kothe was ever likely to receive. His bodily remains would be here forever, never to go to whatever place Kothe would have chosen as his final rest, but his spirit had already fled the arsenal that stood as his tomb. "We suppose we can only add: May the Force be with him."

 

“Our enemies may be gone,” Cipher commented a moment later, turning away from the shielded door, “but we can't leave the Shadow Arsenal in place.”

 

“We see your point,” Vector agreed. “Maybe we should call the nest – a line of two hundred Killiks, each with a missile on its back...”

 

“It's not a bad idea,” Cipher conceded. It wasn't, really. But she knew she had meant what she had told Ardun: No one should have this weapon; she had seen already how such a thing could be turned against their own. The Shadow Arsenal needed to be destroyed.

 

The large holoterminal behind them flared on suddenly, projecting an image of Hunter, life-size and twice as obnoxious. “Cipher!” he smirked. “Imperial again, huh? And no more programming – that is a surprise.”

 

Cipher turned a cold gaze on him. How could he know so immediately? He must have been monitoring the events from the ship – a bug in Kothe's intercom earpiece, perhaps. More and more, Cipher suspected that the force behind this operation had never really been Kothe after all. Ardun Kothe, a caring, charismatic leader, approachable and capable, and perfectly manipulated by his second-in-command. Uneasily, she recalled the image of her dream, dancing on burning strings held by the puppetmaster Hunter, and her terror loomed over her once again, a mindless slavering beast that perched heavily on her shoulders and drooled icy fear over her skin. With the return of her own free will, she had felt momentarily invincible, certain that no superstition, no nebulous directive from some unseen hand of fate, would defeat or impede her. And yet, here once again, events unrolled before her with an eerie familiarity that left her unnerved and apprehensive.

 

“I was finished with Ardun, but I had plans for you,” Hunter was saying, his brag confirming her every suspicion and dread. “We could've wandered the galaxy together – me as the captain, you as my servant."

 

Cipher's reaction was quick. “The thought have traveling – or having _anything_ to do – with you makes my skin crawl.”

 

Hunter responded with a smug and insinuating smile. “No time for flirting now, Cipher, alas. Big changes are coming. Imperial Intelligence and the SIS.... history will forget them. And it'll forget you.”

 

That was hardly a revelation to either Cipher or Vector. She had known the nature of the life she had chosen, operating from the shadows, and Vector had long ago come to understand it himself. If Hunter was looking to belittle their importance, he couldn't have chosen a worse subject; perhaps he wasn't as great a psychologist or tactician as he clearly prided himself on being. Cipher predicted that his own arrogance was going to trip him up someday. She fervently hoped she would be there to take advantage of it. Given the slightest chance, she would shoot his larynx right out of his throat, just to never have to hear his smarmy, sleazy voice again. But no need to tell him that: Hunter delighted in having condescending and nettling replies to whatever Cipher had to say, so what better way to infuriate him than by saying nothing at all? He would have no outlet or opportunity for that flimsy wit he so loved to hear from his own mouth.

 

“I just tipped off a squadron of Imperial bombers,” Hunter finished as klaxons began to wail throughout the complex. “That facility is about to be wiped out.”

 

“I'm not worried,” Cipher lied, her voice flat.

 

“Goodbye, Cipher. When the bombs rain down, the Shadow Arsenal will make a spectacular crater.”

 

The holoterminal image blinked out of existence, and with it went her bravado. Cipher's eyes, widening with alarm as her ears discerned the sound of Imperial engines whining overhead, met Vector's.

 

"Um," she said, "run." She wrestled inwardly to stave off a horrible, fatalistic feeling of desperate futility, and the warehouse floor rocked abruptly under their feet as the first forerunners of the bombardment struck with deafening crashes. "Run!"

 

They spun away from the holoterminal, the Shadow Arsenal, and the last remains of Ardun Kothe, and Cipher felt an appalling, ghastly awareness fill her. This was it, the fateful arrival of her night terror, and she greeted it with bitter recognition and angry despair. In spite of whatever she had tried, this would be the day she fell, and Vector would carry on without her. At least she had seen this final mission to its conclusion. The floor boiled and heaved under their feet while they fled, sprinting down corridors and across the compound's plazas, dodging droids that buzzed about in consternation as they attempted to obey their combative programming in spite of the chaos. Cipher and Vector fought the droids as they ran, a blaster bolt here and a strike there, just enough to slow or divert the droid attacks to clear their escape route.

 

In the end, it was her own foot, turning on a loose bit of rubble on the unstable ground, that was her undoing. She tripped with a small cry, and Vector heard it.

 

Now that the awful moment was upon her, Paha felt immersed in the most curious sense, almost of tranquility, if she had to put a name to it. It was a peculiar feeling that permeated her entire being, mind, body, and spirit, and it told her that if she fell, it didn't matter. If she died, whether by droid or by bomb, even that did not matter. The prospect of terror in her dream she now saw, clear-headed and unerringly, in an utterly different and brilliant light: if Vector died because of her failure, it would be worse to her than any death of her own. In this luminescent moment of perfect clarity, what mattered was not him leaving her, but him escaping to safety. She had saved his life once already today. She would do it again, if it were her last act in the galaxy.

 

"Go," she said, strangely calm as time seemed to lengthen around her, stretched out by catastrophe; her lost footing leading her legs to buckle beneath her. "Run."

 

She knew what would happen next, and she dropped her head, prepared to meet her fate but nonetheless having no desire to watch it take her. There was a roaring sound in her ears quite unlike the sounds of the explosions raining down all about them from the bellies of the Imperial ships streaking across the sky.

 

Something tugged her outstretched arm roughly, and her eyes flew open. Vector had her by the hand, pulling her up before she had even fully hit the ground from her stumble. She staggered as she caught her balance, shocked at an outcome so unlike what she had been sure would come to pass.

 

"Not without you," Vector answered steadily.

 

Her feet matched his pace automatically, and Paha stared at him stupidly, her eyes fixed uncomprehendingly on the back of his head, watching his hair flutter as he ran, one arm drawn back to grip her hand in his own as he nearly dragged her along. It hadn't happened. She was struggling to come to an understanding of it. She didn't believe in fate, and she didn't trust in the Force, but every sign in her dream had aligned too closely to reality to be ignored; any Sith would have considered her vision as prophetic. And yet, although all that her dream had shown her had twisted itself into her waking world, this last terrible piece had not come to pass, even if all her efforts to avert it had failed.

 

Her efforts had failed - but not his. Without even knowing that he was working against anything, he had broken the spell the dream had held on her through a simple act. Simple? Taking her hand might have been simple, but the statement that had accompanied it was not. Not without you, he had said. Escape together, or perish together. It was almost beyond the limits of her credulity.

 

Vector slowed them to a stop along the broken road far beyond the compound's walls, in the shade of an ungainly, contorted tree, hanging its misshapen boughs over a putrid pond that glowed a sickly green, choked with algae overgrown on decades of contaminating phosphorus. He released her hand, scarcely realizing he still held it, and paced a few short steps as he caught his breath. Cipher slung her rifle down to the ground and doubled over, bracing her hands on her knees and letting her head drop between her shoulders, shuddering with disbelief and the effort of recovering her wind.

 

A moment later, a sudden and unexpected sound snagged Vector's attention, and he looked at her more closely: her shoulders were not trembling only from the frightening race to safety, they were shaking from laughter. Tilting his head, somewhat bewildered, he found himself unexpectedly joining her, chuckling in wobbly relief, a sound he had not heard himself make in a very long time – longer than he could recall. She raised her head and looked squarely into his face, slowly straightening her stance as her laughter gained strength, radiant sparks erupting in a halo about her.

 

"We did it!" Paha whooped, casting her hands to the sky in a wild gesture of exultation and leaping in the air. She was fairly dancing with glee. "Ha! We made it!"

 

She abruptly flung her arms around his neck, a frenetic embrace whose suddenness and brevity so surprised him that he had no time to react or respond before she had let go, spinning away from him to face the burning skeleton of the demolished structures, where smoke belched high into the atmosphere, punctuated with occasional explosive eruptions as the fires reached each new untouched depot of chemicals and armaments.  

 

"We made it!" she roared again with defiance to the billowing clouds, "I beat you! Do you hear me, you sons of bitches? I beat you!"

 

Relief and victory had made her half-hysterical, and if she had been asked to answer over which foe it was that she howled out her triumph to the skies - Ardun Kothe, Hunter, Imperial Intelligence's programming, her prophetic dream, or the ships, empty of their payloads and retreating overhead - she would not have been able to answer. All of them, perhaps. Perhaps her victory had been over herself, too.

 

Cipher flung herself down on the pale, weak grass, sprawling on her back with her limbs akimbo, and covered her face with her hands, her chest heaving from the emotional exertion as much as the physical. Vector held very still for a moment. He knew she had been under stress, and the discovery of what Kothe and Hunter had held over her now led him to believe that that stress had been far more severe than he had ever guessed, particularly as judging by this reaction. They had been in tight spots before, but Cipher had always steered them through with a mixture of level-headedness, tactical competence, and physical aptitude without ever following it up with such a display of feeling. Obviously, there had been far more at stake through the duration of these missions than she had ever suggested. He knelt down beside her, one arm propped on his knee, and was content to await the satisfaction of his curiosity until she had pulled herself together. Above them the brittle leaves, partially crystallized with the dried residues of mineralized rain, rustled in the wake of a sulfuric breeze.

 

When Paha at last took her hands from her face, he noted the wet smudges of tears pooling in the hollows below her eyes, but no sign of sadness struck either his Killik or human vision. She wept from relief, perhaps from joy, or maybe simply as an outlet for the overwhelming torrent of undefined emotions that churned within her aura as well as her breast. Paha stared up into the murky vermilion sky, smeared with the chartreuse clouds that swam, halo-like, behind Vector's head as he looked down at her with his dark eyes questioning and intent, but not alarmed.

 

"Did I say this was an ugly planet?" she murmured, her voice roughened with emotion. "It isn't. This just might be the most beautiful planet in the galaxy."

 

Paha took a breath and sat up, feeling as though all the nervous tension of the past few weeks had at last drained from her, leaving her overstrained muscles tremblingly weak; she gave Vector a small smile, tired and genuine.

 

"I owe you some explanations," she said.

 

"We are not sure," Vector replied considerately, "that we can say you owe us anything, but... We admit we are very curious."

 

"It's a long story," Paha cautioned by way of preparation.

 

"We don't mind. In truth, it is just as well: We've noticed that our speeders were destroyed in the explosions. We have a long walk ahead of us, and we cannot think of a better way to pass the journey than by hearing your song. In," he added, "your own voice."

 

The beating of her heart could be yet attributed to the effects of their frightful madcap dash from danger. Perhaps. The weight of his eyes on her, and his expectations, whatever those may be, was just as likely a cause. She had achieved her goal: free now from external control, she was her own woman again, at liberty to dispose of herself more or less as she elected to. She recalled her final conversation with Watcher X, and the idea that had struck her then, that in many ways, she hadn't given any thought to her life after breaking the programming that had locked her mind. Some despairing portion of her brain had tenaciously told her that she would never be free, or that her freedom and her death would be one and the same, so why bother to plan beyond? And yet, here she was, in that beyond that she had more than half-expected she would never achieve. There was nothing else to do now but take it one moment at a time, and in these first ones, that meant acknowledging Vector's weeks of patience and concern with, at the very least, the explanations she had promised to give him.

 

"Then we had better start," Paha said, referring to both her story and the walk that stretched before them as she rose from the sickly grass.

 

She told him, every bit of it, from the keyword set by Intelligence to Ardun Kothe's knowledge and use of it, from the hallucinations of Watcher X to the dangerous path she had taken on his advice, and all that had fallen in between, related with the astute observation of detail and meticulous reasoning that was her habit of expression. Her need for catharsis was so visceral that she could not have held back a syllable, and even then, as her words poured out, the relief was not immediate, like a lost wanderer on Tatooine stumbling on an unexpected oasis, so thirsty that the first desperate gulps of water bring no comfort to parched tissues.

 

Vector walked at her side, interrupting only to inquire on some point or other for clarification, or occasionally to exclaim in astonishment or understanding, and happy beyond measure to be there, watching every word of her song ring true through the shine of her resplendent aura. Understanding now what she had endured, and stunned, he considered the possibility that the experience of her solitary, self-reliant life had poised her to overcome what many never could have. Ardun Kothe had made a poor decision when he had chosen to exploit what Imperial Intelligence had created. How many others, Ciphers or not, could have won such a victory?

 

A victory, he thought, that almost no one would know outside of a few individuals, the number of which could be counted on two hands. And even Keeper would not know it all: Keeper was not here to see the aftermath. When Cipher made her report, she would be professional and detached, and doubtless would omit any mention of the emotional release that signified what this ordeal had cost her. Only he had witnessed that; only he would know, and it wasn't merely because he was the one who just happened to be with her: he doubted if she would have permitted herself to relax her hold on her emotions if Kaliyo had been here in his place. For that matter, he couldn't have sworn that Kaliyo wouldn't have saved just herself and left Paha to her destined fate; it would have been in character for her. But perhaps she would have; she could have hidden depths, and in the mingling of relief, joy, and love that swelled his heart, he was disposed to be generous to anyone. He could have spoken out on his feelings then, and nearly gave in to the temptation, but for the recognition that to place her under the duress of his own emotions when she was already working through a torrent of her own was a grossly unfair imposition.

 

Their pace was almost leisurely as they continued on, side-by-side, their arms not quite brushing each other with the sway of their easy gait. Finishing her revelations, Paha took a long inhalation, and let it out slowly, like a long draft of fresh air sweeping through her to blow away clutter and debris that had been relentlessly accumulating since she had met Kothe. Hearing nothing from her companion, she raised her wondering eyes to look at him. Vector walked, in silence a few moments, considering.

 

"We think you are the bravest person we know," he said simply. “We wish we could have helped you more.”

 

“You helped me plenty,” Paha answered, her voice soft, rasping slightly from her long recitation. “I was ready to die. I was so sure that dream had foretold what would happen, despite my attempts to prevent it. You saved me in a way I can never repay.”

 

“You did save us, too,” he reminded her with a smile. His face became suddenly solemn. “And, we understand your readiness to die was to ensure our safety. We will _never_ forget that.”

 

They had long since crossed into Imperial territory, and were close by now to the shuttle to the orbital station, and the ship that stood as their mutual home.

 

"What will you do now?" Vector inquired.

 

"Report to Keeper. I am sure they will summon us back to Dromund Kaas to debrief us in person. And I want to have a few words of conversation with Keeper. After that?" She paused a moment. "I truly don't know. It may depend on what Keeper has to say for herself, and what work she has for me."

 

Of course they would need to go there; Vector was nonetheless a little frustrated at the prospect. Cipher would make her report, get a pat on the back and perhaps an evaluation with the Intelligence psychologists, and then she would be handed her next mission and shipped off on another exhausting galactic tour. Would they ever allow her a proper rest? A few quiet moments to relax and appreciate the beauty of the galaxy around her? Moreover, would he ever have the opportunity to tell her what he so fervently wished to? They stepped on to the platform elevator that would take them to the transport shuttle, away from this strange planet that had brought forth even stranger revelations, and back to the demands of an Empire and a galaxy. Vector made a resolution.

 

"Agent," he said, his voice quiet but firm, "We know well the Song of Duty, and that it demands rather than requests attention. But when you have reported to your superiors, if you have the desire to discuss this further, we will be pleased to listen.  And, in truth, we ourselves would like to talk more, before we are each once again subject to the demands of our work. Do you mind?"

 

“Of course I don't mind,” Paha replied. “I look forward to it.”

 

They settled into the shuttle, each quietly treasuring their private troves of secret hopes, and left Quesh behind them. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I loved everything about the Ch. 2 Agent storyline - the intense conflicts between different loyalties, the manipulation, the backstabbing, the issues of trust and betrayal - the writers were completely on top of their game on this one.
> 
> 2\. I really did like Kothe's ownership of his decisions. "I did it, I knew it was wrong, but I did it anyway." In his position, as in Ciphers, there is a certain unaffordable luxury to morals. I very much enjoyed the confrontation between the two; I wish the in-game dialogue had mentioned that the SIS certainly would have heard at least rumors about the devastation caused by Jadus. (EDIT: I think he may reference this when they first meet, if I recall correctly, actually. I didn't go back to check.)
> 
> 3\. Seriously, there are an awful lot of fallen/falling Jedi running around among the various stories. Doesn't the Council bother checking up on any of their order? They talk about sensing people falling to the Dark Side, but they never seem to lift a finger to say, "Hey, Jedi Joe, how are you holding up? Feeling conflicted at all? Maybe a little evil? No? Ok, great, I'm glad we had this little chat." Imperial Intelligence seems to understand that the successes of their operatives is directly tied to their mental health (Keeper asks Agent directly about this). The Jedi seem to just stick their heads in the clouds.
> 
> 3\. Paha's ambivalence about the necessity of killing Kothe was real. She (or I) didn't want to slaughter him, but her direct orders were to do just that. For all their training for non-attachment, agents still are subject to the same emotions as anyone else, and Agent is exploited by both sides. I did not want to play my agent as a chaotic evil killing machine: so much of any operative's success relies on their ability to be able to understand what makes their enemy tick, exploit their enemy's fears, to seem charismatic/trustworthy enough to infiltrate a closed group - a complete psychopath/sociopath would find these goals difficult to achieve without an array of facades. But the ability to understand another person is but one step away from being able to empathize with them, and empathy is a barrier to abuse, exploitation, or murder. It's like (again) the book "Ender's Game" - Ender's ability to think like the enemy is what makes him so skilled as a commander, but it also is what emotionally ruins him. In that moment when he fully understands his enemy, he genuinely loves them and must kill them at the same time.
> 
> 4\. I haven't finished the Agent storyline yet, but if I don't get the chance to kill Hunter after first shooting off every one of his fingers, his toes, his eyes, his tongue, etc etc (think "To the pain!" from _The Princess Bride_ ) I will be vastly disappointed. I have a tough time with the fact that many players wish that Hunter had been a romanceable/one night stand option. GROSS. Maybe it's because I've known guys in real life who take it as a fact of existence that every woman is eager to sleep with them and can't handle considering otherwise.
> 
> 5\. I loved writing Paha's moment of epiphany. I recall reading once that there are ages of fear. When we are very young, our fear takes the shape of the unknown fantastic - monsters in the closet, something under the bed is drooling, run-down houses inhabited by Boo Radley or solitary old ladies. When we get older, our fears are still personal, but become more grounded in reality and assumption of risk and responsibility: Will I pass math class? Will I get mugged if I take this shortcut? Will I get in a car accident? The final and most mature level of fear is when a person fears on behalf others: The hopeless terror that a loved one is diagnosed with cancer, for example. 
> 
> Sometimes this fear is the kind that makes one brave without regard to the personal expense: A young woman pushes her boyfriend aside as a car jumps a curb, and she takes the full hit herself (a recent true story of a local teacher; she died). Pulling a friend or family member down behind the seats when some nutjob pulls a gun in a theater or church. At this moment, Paha has crossed over that threshold - she no longer is held hostage by the fear for her own life, she is motivated into activity by her fear for Vector's life instead. That he takes her hand is proof that he has learned the same lesson.
> 
> 6\. *Puts on limnology hat* Phosphorous and nitrogen runoff from agricultural fertilizer overuse is a major cause of eutrophication in bodies of freshwater. It causes the overgrowth of algae - namely, cyanobacteria of the same bright green as the ponds on Quesh, and their death and decay leads to a depletion of dissolved oxygen (hypoxia), ensuring the death of almost all other animal life in that body of water. *takes off limnology hat*
> 
> 7\. She just outran an orbital bombardment. On foot. She's allowed to be a little hysterical.


	11. A Distance Diminished

The consoles on Cipher's ship were tied directly to Imperial Intelligence Headquarters, so she knew that when she passed through the Quesh Orbital Station airlock to the _Phantom_ and  entered in her security access codes, Intelligence would be in touch. What surprised her, however, was the immediacy of the communication. She had hardly entered the lounge when the full-sized holoterminal clicked on, showing her a surprisingly young woman with dark hair and large, bright eyes.

 

“This is Keeper to Cipher Nine,” the woman said urgently. “Emergency transmission – please respond. I have reports of a level-five annihilation wave on Quesh, triggered by an Imperial bombing run. An SIS team was the target. Are you alright?”

 

They had known each other a long time – when Paha had been advanced to Cipher Agent status, this woman, Watcher Two at the time, had coordinated all of her missions. It gave each of them a respect, and even an affection for each other; still, Cipher had not expected Keeper to sound so anxious, and she crossed promptly to the terminal.

 

“This is Cipher Nine. No permanent damage,” she reported, trying to sound matter-of-fact as she confirmed the rumors that had reached Keeper's ears. “I can't say the same for our enemies. Ardun Kothe and his weapon – the Shadow Arsenal – are no longer a threat.”

 

Keeper returned her steady gaze, reading much in Cipher's face as she simultaneously connected this brief communique to the torrent of alarming reports that had raced across her desk, then wondered aloud, “Cipher... what have you been through?” Recalling herself, she returned her focus to the specifics that had what seemed like half of Intelligence headquarters buzzing. “Updating the minister now. Pulling two sections off alert, giving approval to the Moffs to accelerate our timetable.” Looking again at Cipher, she added, “Tell me the rest later. You changed the war, and everything's going to be different.”

 

“I'm coming in to Headquarters,” Cipher stated openly. “There's a lot we have to discuss – things you need to know about the forces involved in this war, and questions I need answers to if we're going to continue working together.”

 

“I understand, Cipher. We'll work on it when you get here. Meanwhile, take a day or two. Remember who you are while there's still a quiet place in the galaxy. By the time you're recovered and back at headquarters, we'll be ready to march on Coruscant. Keeper out.”

 

A day or two, Cipher repeated to herself. And time to remember who she was – time that would be well-spent, now that she could take in all around her without the plodding weight of the brainwashing lugging on her every thought process. But a quiet place in the galaxy? Quesh certainly didn't qualify as that, she mused with a small sniff of droll amusement. Instead, the unlikely image of the cargo hold sprang to mind, and the smile it brought to her lips was neither ironic nor sardonic. Cleaning up and food were both immediate demands, and after that – well, Keeper had given her a day or two, had she not? Based on how her life had gone these past few weeks, that might as well be all the time in the world.

 

\- - -

 

Washed and fed, and enjoying the feeling of having taken her leisurely time about it, Paha stepped through the bulkhead door into the cargo hold, knowing already who she would find there.

 

“Hello, Vector,” she said, and he turned to face her in response, relishing that four syllables in her voice were as harmonious to him as the full chorus of the hive joined in one song.

 

"Agent," he smiled. "We did not expect you so soon."

 

"If it's a bad time," she replied, her tone sincere even if her half-smile was somewhat pert, "I can come back later."

 

"No," Vector hastened to assure her. "It's not a bad time. We had only expected you would wish for rest after today's ordeals. How are you?"

 

Paha's smile widened, an expression of genuine contentment echoed in a shine in both her eyes and aura.

 

"I am... great." She sounded moderately surprised. She paused, trying to think how to phrase it better. It was as if she were looking at the galaxy, her ship, her team, her role, and her life through newborn eyes, restored to some sort of earlier state, less cynical but no less knowledgeable; a strange juxtaposition of the wisdom of experience and the wonder of innocence that was an unfamiliar vestige long since left behind with her truncated childhood. Simple things she had taken for granted before she had discovered the loss of her free will she now considered with new appreciation, and this appreciation extended even to things that had been apparently untouched by the control. Just tasting the ordinary meal Toovee had set before her – for once, thank the stars, free from the interference of Doctor Lokin's Mirialan spices – conveyed a basic sensation of _rightness_ that she, so focused on the many more pressing issues, had not realized had been absent for a long time. 

 

Kothe had used her keyword sparingly, all things considered, but she had seen the ease and eagerness with which Hunter had casually bandied it about, and he was sadistic enough to have used it for spurious aims just for the enjoyment of humiliating her. If he had succeeded in ordering her to join him – "he as captain, she as his servant" he had said, she recalled with disgust – he could have demanded anything of her, no matter how mundane, purely to gloat in his borrowed superiority: to make her eat foods she disliked was the first example that came to mind as she took another bite of Toovee's cooking, but it didn't stop there. He could have commanded her to wash his socks and shine his boots, directed her to reveal Intelligence secrets or to kill her own allies, forced her to bow and kneel and service his every physical desire... The list was endless, and too degrading to bear considering; it was worse by far than what she had tolerated from Caldin. To be free of the programming, and moreover, free of Hunter, was a boon she would not take lightly, and the glow of freshness her recovered liberty gave to all that now met her eyes was a gift she firmly would not fail to appreciate.

 

"I feel..." she tried again, "renewed. It's tough to describe, honestly. After today, I should be exhausted – so should you! But I can't recall when I last felt this...alive. The feeling of no longer being a prisoner in my own body is too fantastic to waste in sleeping. So – ” she felt a little like she was starting to babble, and she cut herself off. “So I am here."

 

As he had asked, she did not add. No need to remind him of something he was already well aware of.

 

Over the past several days, Vector had given a lot of thought to what he intended to say, but inevitably found himself rejecting the idea of flowery speeches or poetic profusions. There were enough sources of obfuscation and misdirection in their lives; would it not be vastly preferable to them both to speak plainly and directly? In a strange and almost unnerving way, this was a Paha he was not sure he knew; so much of their time together had been overshadowed with the programmed control that had wiped the glossy sheen from her aura. But now that he had seen her brightness return, and she had shared with him the whole story, he was certain that he had not been mistaken or misled in her core essence. Hunter might have manipulated her behavior, but he could not manipulate her spirit, and that spirit had an appreciation for honesty fairly born from a life spent routinely bargaining in lies.

 

“And we are glad you are,” he smiled, enchanted by her enthusiasm and hoping that the nervous flutter he felt did not betray him in his voice or motions. “We did wish to talk more... if you wanted. Our intent is not to pry. But if –”

 

Paha waited with quiet interest. Vector was making a good effort at masking it, but he was, undoubtedly, flustered. There was no other word for it. She had spent a long time learning to read others – a significant advantage, often, in her line of work – and although it had taken some time to adapt that skill to Vector and the unique patterns of expression that flickered across his countenance, she considered herself rather practiced at it now. She let him take his time, and didn't push.

 

“There's something we want you to know.” Vector found his train of thought and voice again, and this was a voice colored with solemnity. “We recognize our obsession lately has been with the Colony and the Diplomatic Service. We're sure you've noticed that we've been distant.”

 

“Not only the Colony,” Paha answered, infusing some lightness into her responding tone. “You should allow yourself some room for helping me save the Empire. But...” Abruptly, her own nerves went singularly jittery, in spite of – or because of – her suspicions of the conversation's direction. She had already determined that one of her reasons for returning to Dromund Kaas was to clear the air with Keeper. It was time to do some similar clearing here, on her own ship. She had promised herself that she would not make any offer of herself to Vector until she were free of the brainwashing. She had obtained that freedom – this promise was fulfilled, and did it not imply that there was a contrapositive promise held within it? That now free, she both could and should confront the ideas and emotions that tended to press upon her at the slightest provocation? In the process of keeping her first promise to herself, she had found a certainty that Vector deserved more than some mere dalliance – and perhaps, she did, too. Now that she stood here in the cargo hold with her foot poised to cross that threshold, she found that first step almost as daunting as any of the many steps she had taken on this long and stressful day.

 

“But yes – I noticed,” she admitted. “We were... getting close. For a while. Then you pulled back. That is, we each did. But we've both had a lot on our minds.” She was aware she sounded flustered, too.

 

“Yes. It wasn't intended,” Vector apologized, gratified that she had given equal study to both of their behaviors. He understood now the reasons for hers; he wanted to offer her the opportunity to understand the reasons for his, although his reasons were far more uncomplicated and vastly less traumatic. He was able to sum them up in a few simple words. “We're finished repairing ourselves. We found part of our mind that understood humanity and we're relearning how to use it.”

 

Paha thought he was selling himself somewhat short, at least in regards to his humble claim that he was only just relearning, without crediting himself for all he had so far accomplished. Her observations of him had kept a full accounting of how he had become more open, more engaging, more undisguised, all from his own efforts, via the force of his own will. But what Paha attributed to modesty, Vector freely credited to inspiring gratitude.

 

“We couldn't have done this without you,” Vector admitted generously. He looked her in the eyes, then, raising his hand as if to mask clearing his throat, bowed his head slightly; there was an intensity to their shared gaze that was almost overwhelming and demanded that he break the eye contact, however briefly. He had, however, anchored his resolution solidly to his deep desires, and he raised his face again with a slow, deliberate step towards her, his voice softening as he ventured the most important of his chosen words. “And we don't want to be distant anymore.”

 

Paha felt her breath catch in her throat as it stumbled around the beating of her heart; she hadn't expected the seriousness of his tone, nor that it would affect her so strongly, raising a giddy nervousness in her limbs and an aching knot of feeling in her chest. Loose threads dangled from that knot, each one tied to the many reactions that were vying for dominance within her, varying from delight to defense to disbelief, and she plucked at the one thread that somehow managed to combine all three. Fearing that she would fall utterly to pieces if she matched his gravity with her own, she aimed for a flirtatious buoyancy.

 

“Is that so?” she replied archly, a smile of playful invitation flickering over her lips as she matched his step with one of her own, sidling closer. “Maybe you should be sure I'm convinced.”

 

The words alone were an unmistakable invitation, but the warmth that flushed her blue skin, bringing tints of purple into her cheeks and sending curls of excitement and affection spinning dizzily through her aura, was a much more meaningful sign to Vector's eyes; it enticed him to answer her not with words but with action. There was no response more appropriate. He took another step forward, in time with hers, as though they each moved, independently and yet together, to the rhythm of the beat of their unified hearts. Their trembling hands each extended as if drawn by invisible threads to touch the other, hers to his chest as his came to rest on her waist, his arms encircling her in an embrace they had both in secret moments desired and yet feared might never occur. A smile of equal parts happiness and nervous excitement flickered briefly over Vector's features as he bent his head to her upturned face, his lips meeting hers with such tender gentleness that he half-feared she would think him tentative and uncertain, when he couldn't recall when he had last been so certain about anything before in his life.

 

It was one of the peculiar curiosities of Paha's life that she had not often been kissed, or done much kissing of others. True enough, there had been sex - isolated encounters aiming for nothing more than a casual physical pleasantry with a scattered handful of men who were either attractive or convenient, or both, but she governed these circumstances with two firm rules: no sleeping and no kissing.

 

The first rule was not an eccentricity, it was a matter of common sense. Seduction and sex were weapons as much as blasters or lightsabers; many another agent included these within their personal arsenals quite naturally, and they could be used with almost astonishing efficacy on the unwary. A significant moiety of a cipher agent's success, however, depended upon maintaining a healthy level of wariness, and at what point was a person ever the most vulnerable than when asleep? Even the most innocuous hookup might be a front for a dagger slid between the ribs during a dozy calm afterwards. It was all well and good to be the employer of these tactics, if their extent were truly required – Paha often felt they were not – but to be the victim of such bespoke either inexcusable negligence or full-fledged stupidity. And so, she carefully kept one part of herself grounded well within reality, no matter the circumstances, and always awake and watchful. While Vector had had some idea of the generality, he had no full concept of the depth of trust in him she had demonstrated when she had allowed him his night's vigil in her room – not that he had given her much choice.

 

The second rule was more a matter of personal preference, but she couched it in terms of professional wisdom purely out of defensive habit. The awareness of something close to her face and the sensation of something against her mouth tended to give her an irrational illusion of suffocation; it prompted her muscles to tense in automatic preparation to strike out, as years of training had inculcated in her. Instead, she would turn her head aside, preferring to expose her neck rather than run the risk of having her airway even slightly infringed upon.  That this practice enabled her to keep a vigilant eye on her surroundings was a substantial added bonus.

 

But for all her rules and rationalizations, it all came down to one truism: kissing and sleeping beside another person were acts more personally intimate for her than the act of sex itself. They required and indicated a level of trust that was as privately terrifying as the deeds were professionally hazardous, and denying those two things was as much an act of emotional preservation as it was a policy of physical protection. If any man minded, she didn't keep them around long enough to care.

 

Paha cared this time. A moment ago she had stood hesitantly on the threshold of their strange relationship's next stage, after weeks of peeking obliquely to gauge whether Vector's steps were aiming, as she had hoped and imagined they were, to carry him over it alongside her own, were she brave enough to take the step. At their feet yawned an abyss, dark and bottomless, and as he leaned down to her, she took both a breath and the terrifying leap that would fling herself from the precipice. She kissed him back.

 

Encouraged, his fleeting timidity evaporated, and in the courage that flowed through in its wake as he kissed her more deeply, Paha felt that the chasm below had not surged up to engulf them; they hovered aloft above it, each held up by the other. They had jumped from the cliff together, and had soared, breathless on impossible wings. For this brief instant of time, the chaos of the galaxy and the demands of duty were nothing more than a far away backdrop, distant and inconsequential, and the only matter of significance was what they each held between their hands. To Vector, the air rang with the song that had played out in solitary privacy to his ears alone, now boundlessly sweeter as hers interwove with his, each both a melody and a counter-melody, entwined in a chorale of joy and love such that he was sure that Paha must hear its harmony, too.

 

The moment ending, he raised his head, answering her smile with one of his own, and they each stepped back, suddenly self-conscious; this kiss had been wonderful and frightening, magnificent and awkward – and every second of it had been perfect. Neither would have changed a thing.

 

Vector held her hand loosely, and took a steadying breath, feeling almost bashful. It had been a very long time since he had thought about the physical forms of love, and still longer since he had last kissed a woman, and he was pleased to find that Paha appeared to have enjoyed it as much as he had. His voice was an odd amalgamation of satisfaction and wonder as he mused aloud, “What will be the next verse of our song?”

 

“I can give you a hint.”  Paha, a little dizzy from the whirl of her emotions and her actions, could only give a giddy answer. “But have you really forgotten what comes next?”

 

He knew he had read her interest and enjoyment correctly, but it was still a pleasure to have it confirmed from her own lips. “We haven't relearned _everything_ ,” Vector admitted with a sly smile, “but we'll work on it.”

 

His confession was unexpected, but, in retrospect, understandable, and Paha was fervently thankful for her ability to conceal her reactions. She would not, for the universe, have had any response of hers spoil this moment by giving him the slightest embarrassment or fear of incapacity. The depth of feeling he had just shown her told her too that when he set his focus on working towards something, the rewards were stunning. She knew what she wanted next for them, and was delighted at his clear indication that he wanted the same. It seemed they would each need some time to get there, despite their promising beginning, but that discovery did not worry her. In spite of the demands of the galaxy around them that perpetually seemed to force them to defer their desires and choose inactivity, it would be worse, she felt, to have it force them to choose haste instead. In her individual history, she could not recall feeling for anyone else as she felt for him now, even for those she had once held some idle, moderate affection. This was of an entirely different cast, and while the idea that she was in love with Vector was electrifying, she realized, with some confusion, that she had absolutely no clue how to handle the notion of both love and sex as the same thing. It would, she conceived, take her some time, just as much as he. But for now, this moment was enough.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This was simultaneously one of the most fun chapters to write (it's their first kiss, _at last_ , *squee*) and most nerve-wracking chapters to write (it's their first kiss, _at last_ , *oh crap*). I suppose it's normal for every writer that sometimes, the words flow of their own volition, and sometimes, you have to really work at it. I labored hard over this one. I find these types of scenes tough to write without falling into the sort of traps and tropes and clichés that crop up in any run-of-the-mill bodice-ripper novel, and it took me several days of rewrites to be happy with this. I'm really very pleased with it, I just hope I haven't spent my all on the kiss, and have nothing left for the sex.
> 
> 2\. I mentioned this earlier, but yeah, Hunter persists in being THE skeeviest character in the game so far (for me). Even Darth Baras doesn't bother me as much as Hunter does. He is sketchy as [insert expletive of choice here], and when I rewatched the scene where he talks about Agent being his servant, the abusive ramifications of that idea were gag-worthy.
> 
> 3\. As usual, I've doctored up some of the canon conversation, but this time, I had a concrete objection to the Agent's flirt option. If anyone flirted with me by saying, "I do have other options," I would tell them to piss off and go pursue those options if they were so damn enticing. I thought that line of the dialogue was rude, but I guess for a more flippant character, it would have worked okay. Also, the flirt options largely disappear during the ch. 2 story, and I thought my Agent would acknowledge her own role in how their progress has stalled, rather than placing all the blame on Vector. She's honest about herself that way.
> 
> 4\. OMG. An oblique reference to impotence/performance anxiety in a video game? Like, actual, real-world sexual hang-ups? Ok, yeah, everyone knows it will all magically work out fine, because SWTOR is some of the best escapist fantasy there is, but this was so ballsy that again I tip my top hat to Bioware's writing team. Seriously, good job, Bioware. Of course, since they put it in, that puts the onus on me to figure out how to handle the topic with the appropriate amount of delicacy. 
> 
> 5\. I was initially worried that this chapter was too short, but after a word count, I found that it was just that chapters 8 and 10 were abnormally long. At 3500 words, this chapter is right back down around the lengths of chapters 1-6 (excepting chapter 2, which, like 8 and 10, clocked in at over 5000). I'm astonished to find myself at 46,000 words; I really had not intended writing something of this length when I set out. I started writing a couple of days before uploading the first chapter, so if this were November, I'd be perfectly on track for winning NaNoWriMo. Not bad, considering real life has forced me to be inactive, writing-wise, for several days at a time. I've had some lovely feedback, and I'm very glad that readers are enjoying it. Thanks!!


	12. Unofficially Official

Sitting at the control console of the  _Phantom_ , Cipher piloted the ship towards the atmosphere of Dromund Kaas almost automatically, wishing it were a more complicated task to enable her to focus her attention on something. For the past day or so, her thoughts had been galloping here and there, helter-skelter, with little heed for logic or coherence. She was all too aware of its source; there was a song of happiness that hummed through her entire frame and as she reflected that this poetic thought was a notably Vector-esque observation, she found herself biting the corners of her mouth to keep from breaking into the sort of gratuitous grin that would have betrayed her in a second. It was a blessing that the bridge was otherwise empty, leaving her unobserved, although that same emptiness meant that any attempt to aim her thoughts in a particular direction were laughably futile. She could at least admit to herself that those attempts were entirely half-hearted; she truthfully quite enjoyed letting her recollection drift back to the cargo hold, and then permitting her imagination to meander from there to whatever destination it preferred. With a witness at hand, she might have held herself to an expectation of better success.

 

Had her willpower always been this pathetic? She doubted it.

 

Paha had somewhat counted on the notion that their mutual admission of attraction for each other would offer some relief to her unsettled state of mind, but she found that did not seem to be the case. If anything she was even more distracted, with her ideas running madcap in any direction they wanted in total defiance of intentions. After leaving the cargo hold, she had attempted to resume her normal routines, but as these were such rote activities, they required little concentration, giving her mind ample opportunity to wander. It was an indelible fact that their relationship had changed with both their confessions and their physical contact, but still she marveled that seemingly so small an act had held such profound ramifications of feeling and action. She found the temptation to sneak off to the cargo hold both strong and frequent, seizing her at a moment's whimsical notice without the slightest provocation. Although she gave up on the conceit that her routines could focus her scattered thoughts, she could at least focus her behavior, and she diligently surveyed the ship, their supplies, and her team with a punctilious thoroughness that she hoped masked her internal agitation. Vector, she felt certain, would see right through it.

 

It was almost with a sort of relief that Cipher discovered that as she brought the _Phantom_ closer to Imperial Intelligence headquarters, her thoughts wavered more and more from Vector to her upcoming conversation with Keeper. She was not consciously aware of the point at which the tenor of that mental conference expanded to include a new and somewhat worrying concept that began to press itself upon her with increasing frequency as the distance to Dromund Kaas lessened.

 

A cipher's ability to maintain both moral and emotional detachment was often considered a critical quality of their effectiveness, and she recognized that that detachment was completely gone where Vector was concerned. If Keeper were to find out how matters stood between herself and Vector would there be disapproval? Was there a chance that Keeper might even forbid their relationship as an unaffordable distraction? That was a troubling prospect; Cipher was wholly indecisive on what she would do if such a demand came to be issued. It had taken them so long just to take this first step, as monumental as it was tiny; and to be expected to turn their backs upon it, and forbear any repeat or further action, was grievously unfair – but Imperial Intelligence was not renowned for fairness. Certainly the brainwashing which could have been used to enforce such an edict no longer had any ability to control her actions, but Imperial Intelligence always had other ways of ensuring compliance. Paha had her doubts that she or Vector would heed a direct order, particularly one easily considered as unwarranted and irrelevant; but the penalties of the discovery of defiance could be grave, putting her career and her team at potentially serious risk.

 

Catching herself in the act of envisioning ghastly scenarios of her team broken up and Vector exiled, or another agent sent after her with assassination orders, Cipher scolded herself severely for ridiculous over-dramatization and imbecilic exaggeration. This entire mental disjointedness was getting out of hand. It was one thing to briefly indulge an imaginative fantasy, but quite another to let it conjure baseless spectral terrors. There was absolutely no reason to invent challenges when there were already more than enough in the galaxy. The solution was simple: appear professional, attentive, and competent, and then there would be no need for Imperial Intelligence to ever concern itself with the novel and dazzling knowledge that they themselves had only so recently discovered.

 

As she set the ship down amongst the jungle growth surrounding the spaceport, she recognized the sound of footsteps at the same time a faint odor, vaguely like jessivite, wafted towards her. Biting her cheeks did nothing to prevent her smile this time, and she turned her head, allowing Vector to enjoy the brief sight of her pleased expression before turning back to the controls to complete the engine power-down.

 

“I was just about to meet you,” Cipher said, rising from the chair to approach him.

 

“We guessed,” he answered. “We thought this time we would come to you, instead. We have something for you.”

 

Noting that his hands were empty, Paha gave him an inquisitive look. “What is it?”

 

“This,” he replied, a gleam glittering brightly in his dark eyes. He slid one hand around her waist, pulling her closer as he bowed his face, his lips imprisoning hers with a gentle firmness, delicious and exquisite and too brief to answer the satisfaction of either.

 

“For luck,” he explained quietly, smiling into her vibrant red eyes.

 

Her index finger traced a playful line along his shoulder. “You think I need it?”

 

“No. But we thought it would be better to be safe than sorry,” he confessed, his smile quirking impishly. Paha sent up a mental expression of gratitude to whatever resources he had used to relearn how to flirt. Apparently, he was a speedy student – or perhaps, just a properly motivated one.

 

Two could play at this game, and that was decidedly more fun than just one alone.

 

“Good thing I believe a person can never have too much luck,” Paha answered, arching a slender indigo eyebrow and snaking her fingers lightly into the dark brown hair on the back of his head, drawing him to her. He inhaled her warm, clean scent as she kissed him with parted lips, inviting his exploration, and he savored the sensation of her weight countering his as she leaned against him, tilting her head to let herself sink into the ardor of his response. He felt weightless for a moment, as though they had not after all returned to the solid surface of the Empire's capital planet, and his half-lit eyes glimpsed the flush of her skin and aura, signifying that she was floating, too.

 

The communications console buzzed sharply, and the intrusive sound jerked them back abruptly from their ethereal jaunt; startled, they both jumped, unaccountably guilty as if they had been furtive teenagers caught by their parents, and they bumped heads awkwardly.

 

The buzz was promptly followed by a voice, sounding simultaneously bored and annoyed, trickling over the comm. “Ecks-Seven-Aught _Phantom_ ,” it snipped, “we are still waiting for your final security clearance code.”

 

Already sliding out of the warmth of Vector's arms, Paha rubbed away the sore spot on the supraorbital arch that had collided with Vector's nose and fumbled at the console, trying to sufficiently stifle her giggles to respond. The sound of his own amusement, muffled under his concealing hand, wasn't helping.

 

“Ah – Understood, Kaas Spaceport. I – I have it here,” she released the intercom button to exchange a brief look of mutual embarrassment and hilarity with Vector, then choked down her mirth long enough to provide the code in a manner that sounded at least tolerably like a responsible starship pilot and a member of Imperial Intelligence's elite.

 

“So much for luck,” Vector coughed, smoothing his clothes to momentarily give his hands something to do as he recovered his usual demeanor.

 

“I also believe,” Paha said, “that a person makes their own luck.” She gave him a look of encouragement and promise, which he took to mean any number of positive things, and nodded his readiness to accompany her to Intelligence headquarters.

 

“And Agent,” he added formally as she passed him to leave the bridge, “Don't worry; we promise to be professional.”

 

He knew, without her even needing to ask. She gave him an answering nod, and he fell in a step behind her as they left the ship for Kaas City.

 

\- - - -

 

Imperial Intelligence Headquarters in Kaas City was humming with activity, and Watcher Three had only time for a brief greeting to Cipher as she and Vector entered. The war had evidently intensified, and Watcher Three had his hands full juggling his attention between multiple different operations, keeping Sith lords appeased, and ensuring his teams were holding up under the strenuous demands of sixteen-hour shifts. It was known that Watchers, Minders, and Agents alike were more prone to mistakes as their days lengthened, with each additional hour compounding the frequency and severity of error, but there was no help for it. He waved Cipher and Vector on to Keeper's office where Minder Fourteen met them to take Vector aside for his own debriefing.

 

Cipher waited with a surprisingly comfortable feeling of patience. She didn't have to wait long. An older man entered, bald-pated, and in a new uniform, but Cipher knew him at once: The Minister of Intelligence. He had once been Keeper, and he entered now accompanied by a droid that promptly set about scanning the room for listening bugs. Even here, in the very heart of Imperial Intelligence, there was still a risk, it seemed, and, knowing what she did, Cipher heartily approved.

 

“It isn't my office anymore,” Minister began, “but Keeper is occupied, and I thought we should talk. It's been a long time, agent.”

 

“I wasn't expecting you, sir,” Cipher admitted, “I haven't seen you since Eradication Day. Congratulations on your promotion to Minister of Intelligence; Keeper told me.”

 

“Yes,” he mused, rubbing a gloved hand over his chin, “My wife says the position suits me.”

 

Cipher was careful to keep her outward appearance impassive, but she noted the words attentively. The Minister of Intelligence – formerly Keeper, and before that, probably Watcher, perhaps even onetime Cipher – had a wife. A _wife_! First Temple's revelations about her father, and now this unexpected admission from Minister? What could he mean by telling her this? He was not the sort of man to make idle conversation; idle conversation, and carelessly dropped words, were too great a danger to hazard. One of the first lessons of any member of Intelligence was how to wield language as effectively as a weapon. Words could be used as explosively as an incendiary detonator, or as precisely as a sniper shot, lethal as a vibroblade or devious as poison. The static of small talk could be used as a distraction in the field as much as here at home, and while it filled up the space and time as the droid continued scanning the room, Cipher suspected that was not the only purpose behind the Minister's casual confession: It was entirely possible that Imperial Intelligence already had a good idea of how matters stood between her and Vector.

 

While on the surface, the task of a Minder was, in broad terms, domestic security, Cipher had long since figured out that the Minders at Intelligence were some of the best psychologists in the galaxy. They often handled field agent debriefings, enabling them to assess the status of an agent at the same time as collecting the first hand report. Minders were the primary contacts to receive tips from informants, using their skills to determine the trustworthiness of both the source and the intelligence. They were responsible for filling countless dossiers with extensive profiles, and advised Watchers and Agents on how to motivate a certain asset or which pressure to apply to a particular target. In addition, there were always a few Minders about the lobby and entrance of Intelligence headquarters, ostensibly going here or there about their tasks, but a minor amount of discerning observation had revealed to Cipher the insight that this was, in fact, a front. Their actual task simply _was_ to be present in the headquarters atrium. Any agent entering the building would have to pass by them.

 

Their purpose there was to read, in a single glance, the state of being of every returning agent, before those agents ever made it past the security checkpoint. They had the expertise and training to detect an agent on the edge, or one who had fully broken, and could place the staff on alert and intervene before any real damage was done. Cipher now suspected that more than one of them was like Ensign Temple – Force-sensitive but not strong enough to survive the Sith academy, instead opting to live out their days in the secrecy of a carefully cultivated role, trained to study others without being studied themselves. It was something that, on later consideration, had bothered her somewhat in regards to her covert visit to the Archives. She had been extremely careful in her approach, timing, and route, but she knew the impossibility of passing through without being seen by at least one Minder. And yet, they had not openly stopped or questioned her. One option was the Minder that day hadn't been particularly adept – an unlikely possibility. The second option was that Cipher was just _that_ good, or that the controls on her mind had obscured her intent from the Minders. The third option was that the Minders had in fact read her true purpose, but had been ordered not to intervene, a provocative notion that had any number of other conclusions and suppositions bifurcating from it.

 

At that time, Vector, at least, had been wholly ignorant of her reasons for being there; he knew them in full now. The alterations to his brain chemistry that were the result of the Killik Joining might create some minor limitations to a Minder's ability, but that certainly didn't make him immune from discovery. It was likely that if Intelligence hadn't already known the details of her prior visit and the subsequent outcome, the Minders became aware of it before Cipher and Vector made it three steps through the door, and had it noted in their files by step six. In the face of that consideration, for the Minders to discern the relationship between two people, no matter how well concealed, must be the work of a novice. It would be an easy task for any one of them to have read much in the exchange of even a casual glance between Cipher and Vector; whatever they had gleaned would have already been passed on to those, like Minder Fourteen, sent to debrief them, and perhaps to the Minister of Intelligence himself.

 

So if Minister knew of them already, as seemed increasingly likely the more Cipher thought about it, was his seemingly off-hand remark his subtle way of granting his permission or approval? Did he tell her of his connection to give her some assurance about her own? Was he extending this measure of grace to her as a sign of his trust in her, her reward for all she had accomplished, or as recompense for what she had endured? Perhaps all three?

 

“Scan complete,” chirped the droid. “No listening devices found.”

 

“Broadcast mode,” ordered Minister, taking no chances. “White noise, ten minutes, then leave.”

 

Turning his attention back to Cipher, Minister continued. “We may as well be honest. I know about the stolen files. I know you discovered your brainwashing and freed yourself. And yes, I was responsible.”

 

“I know you must have had your reasons,” Cipher acknowledged. She respected Minister's unrepentant admission no less than she had Kothe's. “Just as you know I must have had my reasons when I freed myself.”

 

“Yes. I was rather counting on it that you would.” The Minister regarded her thoughtfully, gauging her reaction. She again debated herself over his word choice. Did he mean he had counted on her freeing herself, or merely that she would have reasons for doing so? It was an interesting question, inferring that her visit to the archives had been not only expected, but permitted, with only the small loss of a few droids for the purpose of keeping up appearances. Perhaps the Minders had let her pass, after all. How much of this had he planned? He wasn't giving her any hints. “Honestly, you aren't as angry as I expected you to be.”

 

"I have had a lot of time to think it over," Cipher replied, “but you're right, sir. I'm not angry, just... disappointed, perhaps. The Empire never needed brainwashing to ensure my loyalty.”

 

"I know," Minister answered. "But this was never about your loyalty. It was about your obedience. The Sith wanted you under control. Your threat to Darth Jadus extended much further than him alone; you frightened them. How long before you eliminated another on the Dark Council?”

 

"In taking down Jadus, I _was_ being obedient," Cipher objected. “My task was to eliminate the lynchpin of a terrorist network. I did so.”

 

“I know that, too," Minister conceded.

 

“And if the Dark Council would have bothered to police their own,” continued Cipher with some asperity, “there would have been no need for it, and thousands of Imperial citizens would still be alive. If the Sith gave half as many thoughts to the well-being of the people as they do their petty squabbles and self-promoting ambitions, no force in the galaxy would withstand the might of the Empire.”

 

“Careful, Agent,” Minister cautioned, although something in his manner suggested a faint hint of agreement. “Those are some dangerously Republican sentiments you are expressing. The Dark Council does what it wants, as it sees fit. It does not care about the fairness of the commands they issue to those they think of as beneath them, and they think _everyone_ is beneath them. The role of the Imperial Military, and by extension, Imperial Intelligence, is to serve the Sith and their goals, whatever those may be. The behavior of Jadus or justification for his removal was never part of their decision. They cared only about the threat you posed to each one of them personally."

 

"Then,” Cipher replied, going immediately to the conclusion, “let me surmise this: brainwashing me was not their first choice."

 

Minister raised an eyebrow ever-so- slightly. "Astute, Cipher. Yes, their first demand was an almost unanimous call for your swift execution. It took some doing to get them to agree to a scaled-back resolution. I don't plan to tell anyone you're free."

 

"And that placed you, I think, sir, in a perilous position, opposing the Dark Council," Cipher offered, watching Minister's carefully impassive face for a silent confirmation. "In which case, I believe I owe you some gratitude for saving my life, rather than anger for controlling it. I chose this career with my eyes open, sir; I know the sorts of tactics that are necessary. I won't throw a temper tantrum just because techniques I have known to be used on others now have been used on me."

 

"Good. I'm glad we see eye-to-eye on that. I won't deny, though, Cipher, there were a few moments where Keeper worried we would lose you."

 

"Before or after the military dropped an orbital bombardment on my head?" she queried drily.

 

"Both. That wasn't our call; we found out about it only after the strike had begun. But we were finally able to pinpoint where the order came from. It brought us to Ardun Kothe's shuttle, found abandoned in space without any data on your 'Shadow Arsenal', and, according to our records, there's no evidence of an agent 'Hunter' ever existing.”

 

“How terribly convenient,” Cipher replied with a wry grimace. “I am certain it was Hunter who obtained my keyword and disseminated it to Kothe, not the other way around. Hunter likes to give others the illusion that they are in charge, while he manipulates in the background.”

 

“I don't doubt your story,” Minister assured. “The SIS should never have possessed Imperial brainwashing codes, but clearly, they do. Someone – your Hunter or his employer – is manipulating this war for his own ends. Someone with access to both Republic and Imperial resources. This someone gave Ardun Kothe your keyword. Between this unknown entity and the Sith, it seems everyone else thinks they should have the right to exercise more control over agents than Keeper does. Damnably impertinent, really."

 

"Sir,” Cipher pointed out, “I am not going to ask if you have other agents currently under the same control right now – I don't want to know. But if you do, every one of them needs to be recalled from the field, immediately, and their keywords changed, if you haven't done so already."

 

The corner of his mouth quirked in a shadow of a smile, and Minister said, "If you ever get tired of field work, you have a future here as a Watcher, you know. That aside, we need to find out who is working against us, and why.”

 

“Who has the resources? What sort of person could pull those strings?” Cipher wondered, ticking off a woefully short list of options. “Imperial Intelligence and SIS, not to mention Jedi and Sith...”

 

“Let's not elaborate on guesswork until we have facts,” Minister advised. “Fortunately, the trail is still warm. Yesterday, a man fitting Hunter's description boarded a shuttle to the Isen Four asteroid colony. Nine hours ago, we received this message.”

 

The droid at Minister's side obligingly projected the recorded holo message; a Mirialan, identifying himself as Representative Omana Tragg of the Isen Four mining colony, indicated he sensibly recognized the folly of offering resistance to the Imperial forces encroaching further upon that sector of space, and related his preparation to surrender. It was a surprising boon.

 

“We don't know,” Minister continued, “if the colony's surrender is related to Hunter's arrival, but I want you after him. Our forces will arrive there within two days, and you are to investigate this before they arrive.”

 

“Isen Four,” Cipher mused. “What would he need at a Republic mining colony?”

 

“The Watchers are collating data on the facility and known occupants. Hopefully, they'll find out. If not, it's up to you.”

 

“Understood, sir.” Cipher understood a polite dismissal when she heard one.

 

“One last thing, Cipher,” Minister arrested her departure, “regarding your extracurricular activities with Vector Hyllus.”

 

Cipher blinked rapidly, and all the self-control in the galaxy couldn't prevent a hint of a violet tinge tickling at her cheeks.

 

“I hear things in the diplomatic channels,” Minister clarified, and Cipher relaxed, relieved he did not, evidently, intend to make her squirm for long. “He's been quite the busy bee, messages to this Moff here and that Sith lord there. Talking up an Imperial-Killik alliance? On your watch?”

 

“If you are asking if I have sanctioned his efforts, sir, yes, I have,” Cipher confessed. In truth, while she had known he had been intently keen on re-establishing connections with old contacts, and making new ones, she hadn't been aware of just how much time and effort he had been devoting to it. The realization made her feel indistinctly guilty, both from a personal standpoint – she should have made more of an effort to ask him about it – and from a professional one – what else was going on on her own ship that she knew nothing of?

 

“And your impression is?”

 

“The alliance between the Empire and the Chiss has been mutually beneficial,” she replied steadily. “I see no reason why the same could not apply to the Empire and the Killiks, even just as a simple trade agreement to start. For a more tactical point of view, the Killiks have established colonies throughout the galaxy, on Imperial, Republic, and unaffiliated worlds alike. An alliance with the Killiks would give the Empire a ready-made foothold to expand Imperial influence into dozens of worlds, or supply resources and support for more covert operations. I support the effort.”

 

“A worthwhile consideration,” Minister nodded. “Thank you.  But now, Isen Four awaits. Good luck, Cipher.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I recall that early on, when first arriving at Kaas City, the Agent talks to other personnel in Imperial HQ, and the conversations describe the roles of the Minders, Fixers, Watchers, etc. I didn't try to dig up these scenes again, but I did find a brief blurb regarding the "domestic security" information on a forum thread. It was vague enough - but honestly, I figured there was more than one reason they might be called "Minders."
> 
> 2\. It was not until well after this point in the story that I had the idea to write this fic, so I kept no notes of any kind on the conversations. This is one reason why not all of the conversations here follow the canon scripts. Most of the time, I've been able to reasonably reconstruct them via others' posted articles or videos and partially from memory, but for the conversation with the Minister of Intelligence, all sources I found usually involved selecting the angry or accusatory options (understandable - many commenters on threads discussing the scene mentioned an automatic revulsion to the idea of having been brainwashed). My agent went through that scene, however, with no bitter recriminations: she genuinely saw the logic of it and honestly wasn't ticked off. In the conversation options I selected, I don't recall Minister telling her "if I hadn't done it, you would be dead," (I may just not remember it fully), but I drew that conclusion almost immediately (Sith usually deal with personnel problems by killing first and letting HR sort out the bodies later) so I wasn't surprised that this was revealed in the other conversation choices. As a result, I invented a large part of this conversation from my own imagination (also to allow her to vent about the Sith; she finds them often irrational and sloppy), although portions of it (the wife reference, and the information about Isen Four) is pretty much verbatim. Also, in my play-through, I swear Keeper came in at the last part of the conversation of this scene, but I didn't see that in the videos I watched, so it may again be my faulty memory - so I left her out.
> 
> 3\. Like Imperial Intelligence wouldn't keep tabs on an agent's team actively meddling with matters that could have major repercussions! My invention again, but considering that pretty much every relationship in this game involves the sort of ethics violations we annually get trained on avoiding in the workplace, she deserved to fidget over it at least a little. It behooved her to have a few qualms, anyway. 
> 
> 4\. "What else was going on on her own ship that she knew nothing of?" Yes, this is a direct allusion to Kaliyo's selling of secrets.
> 
> 5\. I realize I erroneously swapped two events in the story line - the communique from Daizanna was supposed to happen after the first kiss, not before. Oops. I like where I ended up putting it, though; I didn't feel the conversation really required a full rehashing. In-game mechanics let you drop what you are doing to go off on companion quests or flashpoints, etc. without repercussions in the story line; from a realism-in-storytelling standpoint, if a mission is time-sensitive, it's time-sensitive. Kothe's Shadow Arsenal won't wait while you redecorate your stronghold or gamble on Nar Shaddaa (heh). This means I may have to adjust the telling of events to keep a decent narrative through-line.
> 
> 6\. On a related note, I had spammed so many gifts on Vector through Chapter 2, initially not realizing that I needed Chapter 3 to trigger the next quest, that when Chapter 3 started, things moved VERY quickly. I was eager to know what came next, and didn't space out the conversations well. In terms of class missions, the story in this fic is starting to approach where I have currently played up to in-game (Belsavis), and I will need to move ahead on that front in order to balance the class mission plot and the romance plot here. Because of this, and note 5, for the sake of story flow, I may take a few additional liberties with the timing of events. I'll try to ensure that everything makes sense, though.


	13. The Slaughter at Isen Four

“Why the cargo bay?” Cipher asked, apropos of nothing as she and Vector entered the lobby of Kaas Spaceport.

 

“We're sorry?”

 

“The cargo bay. I know I can always find you there, but I was curious why, when we have a perfectly comfortable lounge.”

 

“Perhaps,” Vector replied pleasantly, “we stay there because we know that is the first place you will look for us.”

 

He watched the smile that toyed with her lips and the swirl of color in her aura that he interpreted as flattered satisfaction, then continued, “But we know what you mean. We think...it may be that the hold reminds us somewhat of the nest. The arrangement of crates make corridors, like those in the hive; the lighting is dimmer there...” He trailed off, aware that sometimes his language persisted in being an inadequate servant to the sights and sounds he perceived in his surroundings.

 

“You don't have to explain, if you don't want to.” She was still trying to figure out the line between letting him see her genuine curiosity and prying.

 

“We are not offended. We have a question for you, as well, and perhaps a request.”

 

“Whatever I can do,” Cipher answered readily.

 

“How long is the trip to Isen Four?”

 

Cipher cast him a puzzled glance. “I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't that. I'd have to check the astrogation computer, but my guess is anywhere from twenty six to thirty hours. The Minister of Intelligence wants us there in advance of the Imperial forces. Why?”

 

“That is the request part,” Vector said, thoughtful and serious. “We wish to undertake a Killik ritual.”

 

Cipher raised an eyebrow as thoughts darted from her mind like startled womprats from their dens; this application could be a prelude to any number of things. “I don't intend to object, but I would like to know more about it,” she replied.

 

He paused at the foot of the ramp to the _Phantom_ , seeking the words to explain. “More specifically, it is a ritual of the Dawn Herald, called the Chrysalis of Tranquility. It enhances our link to the universe. It makes us stronger, better able to face the enemies of the nest. The better to serve you.”

 

“I don't want a servant, Vector, I want a partner,” Paha explained, and although she folded her arms as she shifted her weight to one foot, her voice was mild and affectionate. “I would rather have you beside me than under me.”

 

The words were out of her mouth before she realized the double entendre, and as the color crept into her cheeks, her lips twisted into a chagrined moue in response to Vector's raised eyebrows. She'd said it; she figured she might as well own it.

 

“Well... under works, too.”

 

“We will keep that in mind,” Vector answered, his face twitching in a flash of amusement. He swallowed a sudden dryness in his mouth as he raised a hand in a gesture that Paha was beginning to recognize as one he used to cover anxiety or embarrassment, a pantomime of covering a cough to clear his throat.

 

“This ritual,” she hastened to bring their joint attention back to the topic, “what does it involve? How long will it take?”

 

“It is largely meditative. It requires a stillness of spirit,” Vector described, and Paha gave no outward reaction of her private thought: that if his spirit had been behaving at all as hers had recently, ensuring its stillness would be a challenging practice indeed. “The timing may be somewhat indefinite, but we expect to be finished well before our arrival at Isen Four.”

 

Cipher nodded, considering, then answered, “I have no objection, but I have a request of my own. Doctor Lokin came to me to ask permission to do a workup on you. I assume he spoke to you about it?”

 

“He did, Agent. What did you say?”

 

“That it was up to you. Your body, your decision. If you are amenable to the idea, however,” she added, “you may wish to have him make his examination twice – once before your ritual, once after. I'm sure he would find it interesting, from the perspective of a scientist, and you...”

 

“We, too, have wished to learn more of our nature. It is a wise suggestion,” Vector mused, acknowledging the prudence of the idea.

 

“Just,” Cipher cautioned with a smirk, “don't allow him to inject you with anything. I know he's still tinkering with that rakghoul serum of his.”

 

Vector returned the half-grin briefly, then, as it faded, he apologized. “We are sorry to absent ourselves. We would not do so unless we thought it beneficial to us. Us both,” he clarified.

 

Cipher raised a hand in a mollifying motion. “It's not a problem. Let me know when you intend to start, and I'll make sure you aren't disturbed.”

 

“Thank you, Agent.”

 

\- - - -

 

Some hours after they had left Dromund Kaas behind them, Paha headed for the cargo hold. Doctor Lokin's baseline scans had been completed for some time, she was aware, and she was surprised that Vector had not sent her word that he was about to begin the ritual he had so recently stressed as important. More curious than concerned, she went to investigate, and as she stepped through the door, spying his bowed head and tensed shoulders, she reversed the two conditions.

 

“Vector? What's going on?”

 

He turned to face her, his face blank but for the faint impression of lines of confusion and inquietude etched beside his eyes and mouth. It did little to assuage her apprehension. “Is everything alright?” she inquired again.

 

“Agent,” Vector began, his voice guarded and impenetrable. He pursed his lips, then continued. “In our work with the Diplomatic Service, we find ourselves talking to people we once knew. They talk to others, and those to still others, a lengthening chain of connections between more and more people. People we had forgotten, at least for a time, and people that we assume would have forgotten us.” He pulled out his personal holocommunicator and switched it on. “We've been contemplating this message.”

 

The holo displayed the image of a young woman, dark-haired and sweet-faced, in an Imperial uniform and wearing an expression of uncertainty and doubt on her furrowed brow. She ducked her head hesitantly, twisting her fingers together as she spoke.

 

“Hello, Vector. It's Anora. I don't know if you remember me, but Bryson said he thought you would, and... I wanted to talk to you. I know things didn't end well, but I never forgot. ...You need to get out of there. Come back to Dromund Kaas, and we'll get you help. We can undo what the Killiks did. There are still people who care about you.”

 

The holo flickered and the message ended, and the miniature Anora vanished from existence. The ensuing silence was broken only when Vector spoke again in those guarded, unemotional tones, like a reversion to his old Killik patterns of expression.

 

“We've watched it seventeen times, and meditated to the static.”

 

Seventeen times? That gave some indication of the seriousness of the issue. How like him to be so precise!

 

“So _that's_ Anora,” Paha reflected, almost to herself, and in response to Vector's startled and questioning silence, she added, “Falner Oeth. When he first got in contact with you, he asked how Anora was, although he called her Anya. You corrected him, and said you hadn't seen her in a long time.” Rapidly, a number of minor and seemingly innocent factors interconnected themselves in her mind and Vector's unassuming description of how conversation chained people together cast an unintended shadow that felt hazily sinister.

 

She had a patent dislike and distrust of the Zabrak diplomat, arising from his own avowed disgust towards Vector; she was aware that she was predisposed to think hardly of Oeth, but the circumstances here were too convenient to be coincidental. In the first place, why had Oeth asked about Anora back then? On the surface, it had appeared to be a mere pleasantry. In retrospect, that might not have been the case; even the error of her name could have been faked as a test to determine Vector's memories of his former life. Second, if Falner Oeth knew Anora, or at least knew of her, then there was a possibility that Oeth and Anora had been in contact. If so, when, and for how long? Paha considered the possibility that Anora could have asked Oeth, or some other connected to the Diplomatic Service, like this Bryson person, to alert her if Vector resurfaced, but Paha felt this was unlikely. Anora's behavioral simplicity in the holo-message suggested a sort of unaffected naiveté that repudiated the idea that she was behind this.

 

Instead, Paha's instant suspicion was that it had operated in the other direction: that Oeth had contacted Anora, perhaps via Bryson, and manipulated her into sending this message, and that Oeth's earlier greeting had been to assess his potential success in using Anora to influence Vector. To what end? That much was obvious: his own advancement. When the Diplomatic Service had ignored Vector's initial report outlining the benefits of an Imperial-Killik treaty, Oeth had taken up the cause, claiming to see the wisdom of it. Not long after, once Oeth had exploited Vector to gain a promotion, Oeth had revealed his abhorrence of the project he had helped to set in motion, although nothing else had changed: the proposed gains were as obvious as ever. How deep did Oeth's antipathy run? He maintained the appearance of assisting Vector's cause, but Paha held no doubts that Oeth would not shrink from stooping to strategems and chicanery to undermine it, even to the extent of dragging up the ghosts of Vector's lost loves in a clumsy and rather brutal attempt to jar him back to his human existence. If Anora's plea succeeded, then Vector would be removed not only from Killik influence, but also from the position of promoting a Killik-Imperial alliance, leaving the Empire free to subjugate, not collaborate with, the Killiks, and Oeth would take the credit again.

 

There was no proof of these speculations, however, in spite of her strong instinct that they were at least partially true, and she hesitated to suggest aloud that Vector's old flame was even unwittingly in collusion with Oeth, unwilling to risk treading callously on whatever feelings Vector might have for his past. While she pursued her conjectures of Oeth's potential conspiracies, she could keep the examination of her own emotions at bay, but she could feel them encroaching upon her now. She was aware she was staring at the empty holo, and her eyes slid up to Vector's face. “It sounds like you two used to be a couple.”

 

“We were nearly engaged to Anora, very long ago,” Vector explained, for some reason surprised that Paha had so clearly remembered such a tiny detail as Falner's offhand words. Paha hoped she well concealed the irrational pang the information gave her. Of course he would have had a life before Alderaan, and before the Killiks! A man of his status, his intelligence, his sensitivity, his build, his handsome features – she paused in her panegyric tally, recognizing it as a tactic to delay the conclusion, the contemplation of his former loves that prompted these preposterous twinges of jealousy. With that list of qualities, it was probable that he had once had to drive away women with a stick. And what did that matter? He was here, now. But emotions were troublesome and unruly things, insolent and mutinous in the face of even the most soundly argued reasoning.

 

“We never considered,” Vector said, legitimately perplexed and fixing his eyes on some spot in space far beyond the hull of the ship, “that there are people who want us... restored to what we were.”

 

“Do you wish to leave the Colony?” Paha asked directly. She recognized her jealousy was freely mixed with an acute curiosity; Anora had said the affair had not ended well. From almost engaged to a bitter ending... in how short a time? And how did that event relate, if at all, to Vector's removal to Alderaan and his Joining the Colony? Was it before or after the break? Was it even any of her business? Refraining from pushing for details that could be painful or salacious, she continued, “If you could be restored, would you want it?”

 

The question disconcerted him, and his gaze shifted to focus closely on her face, where he read much more there than the words she had used. Her question had centered on his relation to the Colony, but it was easy to peel back that layer to the latent inquiry beneath it: _Do you want to go back to her?_ Her aura was guarded, and her arms folded in an automatic and unconscious stance of defense, but her eyes looked back at him, direct and bright, with honesty shining in their scarlet depths. 

 

From all he had observed of her, Paha was not the type to demand he do anything against his will – she had far too much experience as the recipient of such treatment to use that tactic. In a fathomless instant when a brief and fragile supposition crystallized into a conviction, he was suddenly certain that if he said so, that yes, he wanted it, she would let him go, and go freely – not because she didn't care for him, but because she _did_. She would let him walk away, and stretch out no hand to stop him, if she believed he would be happier somewhere else – or rather, with _someone_ else. And she would bury her private hurts and wish him well and add him to the reckoning of those who had discarded her, alongside her planet and her people and the men who had come before. 

 

He felt the weight of the holocommunicator in the palm of his hand. Anora's message was a muddled cluster of discordant tones jostling against the independent themes that had gradually assembled themselves into a satisfying harmony about him, one he had been looking forward to exploring further. Under this aria suddenly unbalanced by Anora's diffident dissonance, there was one other song he heard: a soft, plaintive melody buried so deeply that its strains were almost too faint for him to catch. But one of the greatest things he had learned from the Killiks was the art of listening closely.

 

 _Please,_ it sang, like a requiem for hope, _please don't give up now. After all this, for all that we have done and been and could be, please don't let us go._

 

The mysterious part of it was that he couldn't tell if the elegy came from her soul or his own.

 

“No,” he answered, finally. _There are people who still care about you,_ Anora had said, and she was right. One of them was standing in this very room with him, and wasn't demanding he be something he was not. “Watching this, feeling nothing – we know we're no longer who we were when we loved her. We had to know if our reaction was unnatural, but we don't think it is. We are content.”

 

Paha hadn't been aware that she had been holding her breath until now, and in the empty moment that followed, she let it out very slowly, avoiding the urge to release it in a noisy rush that would divulge the misgivings she told herself were foolish. Vector set aside the holocommunicator, and looked at her, trying to read her face and gauge her state of mind; her aura was still under close guard, save for something that appeared to be a sort of jittery relief. It occurred to him, belatedly, that Anora's message had been more emotionally unsettling to Paha than it had been to himself, aside from the trill of surprise he had heard on his first watching of it. He had watched it again, and then again, examining himself for a reaction that never seemed to really manifest itself – at least, not in him. It seemed to have manifested itself in Paha, however, and he had an uneasy notion that he aught to apologize, although he wasn't certain he could articulate the offense.

 

“Will this,” Paha broke the silence before he had gathered himself, “interfere with your ability to undertake your ritual?” Tranquility was something rather remote to her at the moment, but he seemed less fazed; the pivot of his trouble had centered on a worry that he thought he should feel something and did not, rather than distress arising from any conflict of feeling itself.

 

“We think not,” he answered. With the assurance that his reaction was nothing strange, he had resumed his equanimity quickly – but then, he had observed seventeen play-throughs of the message; Paha was still contending with all the questions and implications that were cast up from just a single watching. She had done it bravely, and if he couldn't structure an apology, he could at least bolster her confidence. He reached out one hand, gently taking hold of her fingers.

 

“We believe we can still achieve the necessary stillness of spirit,” he murmured. “For we have your song to inspire us.”

 

\- - - -

 

“Odd,” Ensign Temple reported from the communications console. “No one seems to be responding, sir.”

 

Cipher leaned forward to observe the Isen Four colony station through the window with a scrutinizing gaze. Odd was one word for it.

 

“We have a bad feeling about this,” Vector concurred from where he stood on the other side of the bridge.

 

“Yes. All the more reason for us to get over there and investigate,” Cipher replied resolutely. By this point, there should have been not only a response to her hails, but instructions on docking and hangar bay assignments, and an exchange of identification and verification codes, but the station hung in space, alive but mute. A trap? The shielded hangar bays were out of the question, so Cipher docked at an airlock, and moments later she and Vector were poised to cross onto the station's lower deck. Vector reached out suddenly, laying an arresting hand lightly on Cipher's arm.

 

“There is death here,” he cautioned, “and the radiation of the stars shines through.”

 

She nodded her agreement, and, as she opened the airlock, the first thing that struck their senses was the acrid odor of smoke, wafting from the residues of several small fires, ignited by blaster fire and burning lethargically here and there at the flame-retardant carpets and wall panels. The bodies of the fallen lay scattered across the corridor, and Cipher knelt beside the first, inspecting the colony sentry, outfitted in Republic armor, with attention.

 

“Dead,” she confirmed. “Blaster rifle, most likely, at fairly close range.” She glanced up the hallway, noting the scorch marks on the walls, the traces of recent blaster fire, destroyed furniture, and installations cracked and toppled by incendiary devices. “And by someone not particularly careful about their precision. This was calculated to be speedy and savage.”

 

“Shock and awe tactics?”

 

Cipher gave him an assenting glance, and put a hand to her earpiece. “Lokin, do you read?”

 

“Agent?” replied the doctor's voice.

 

“I'll need you in here. There's been a slaughter. Vector and I will go on ahead and clear the halls, but we can't take the time to check the fallen. Follow behind us and see if there is anyone left alive in this bloodbath. I don't have much hope,” Cipher shook her head, surveying the extensive carnage, “but there's a chance and we need the information. Kaliyo can cover you.”

 

“I'll be there directly,” Doctor Lokin answered steadily.

 

Cipher and Vector progressed through the corridors, feeling as the only living creatures on a station of death, when a battered colony security officer staggered out from behind a pylon, training a blaster pistol on Cipher.

 

“Stop right there, you slime,” he demanded, his features haggard. “No Imperial sets foot in my home!”

 

Keeping her hands carefully visible and still at her sides, Cipher turned to face him and took two slow steps towards him, unblinking in the face of the pistol's muzzle. “The last I heard,” she said cautiously, “Isen Four surrendered to the Empire. What's going on?”

 

“Like you don't know?” the officer scoffed, incredulous to Cipher's answering negative shake of her head. It was possible her quiet assurance made him second guess himself, or perhaps her recognized that he could not win against two fresh opponents. Either way, he lowered his weapon.

 

“Someone sabotaged Colony Control. It started two hours after the surrender. First the tram accident. Then the air filters,” he insisted, his voice raising in agonized frustration, “and the decompression... assassin protocols in the medical droids! We surrendered! Why did you do it?”

 

“We didn't,” Cipher answered straightly. The Empire had a deserved reputation for ruthlessness, but massacring civilian laborers surrendering a useful facility? People who were a skilled and efficient work force that could have been put to work immediately, while inflicting major damage on the facility itself? If an Imperial were behind this, Cipher felt they deserved execution for sheer idiocy and wastefulness. “Whoever's behind this wasn't one of ours.”

 

The distraught officer barely had the time to demand, “Then who?” before the sound of a single blaster shot echoed through the spacious halls, and he crumpled to the ground. Cipher spun on her heel and spied the culprits: a trio of reprogrammed medical droids. The security officer hadn't been lying. Hunter had a sick sense of humor. But in spite of the assassin protocols, medical droids were not combat droids, and were not armored like a combat droid was. Cipher and Vector took them apart easily, then Vector knelt beside the injured officer, watching the darkness of death usurp the glow of life that haloed him.

 

“He sings his last song,” Vector observed. “Say what you have to say.”

 

“I need to know if you've seen an SIS agent. Code name 'Hunter,'” Cipher asked promptly.

 

“What...?” mumbled the officer, refocusing and desperately rallying himself. He was clearly fighting against his imminent death, perhaps clinging to a final hope that his knowledge would help this unlikely ally to avenge his fate. “The SIS – he went to Colony Control before we lost contact. I don't know if he made it out. But now it's sealed up tight, no one could make it – make it past... past –”

 

Whatever it was would be a future discovery. The officer's head dropped to the floor and his life passed out from him into the universe with the last gasp of air that fluttered over his lips.

 

They found no other living creature as they continued to Colony Control, but the colony's defense and droids had been set to inflict maximum havoc, and the computer terminals were useless, exhibiting only garbled nonsense in their attempts to access security footage or information. The reason for this was a device hooked into the Colony Control computer, and even Watcher Three, when Cipher contacted him over a secure channel, confessed that the Fixers hadn't seen something like it before, although they believed they could at least disrupt it. The array of confused holodisplays above the Colony Control computer vanished, leaving a single entity emitted from her own holocommunicator. Hunter.

 

“You followed me. You cut off control,” Hunter complained, like a petulant child. “I'm a little put out.”

 

“Really,” Cipher replied drily. Time for Hunter to be the recipient of a few sarcastic barbs. “Here I thought you _liked_ it when I followed you. Can't take the heat?”

 

“Not that it really matters,” Hunter shrugged. “I'm long gone, I got my massacre, and besides – it was for propriety more than anything."

 

“Were you this obnoxious to Ardun Kothe?” Cipher inquired. “Or am I special?”

 

“I tried to behave for the SIS – but for you and me? Let's be bad,” Hunter smirked.

 

“That's the best you can do?” Cipher replied, stifling a fake yawn. “You're losing your edge.”

 

“Look,” Hunter snipped flatly, “I don't have anything against that place. But if you want a war to start right, you've got to grease the wheels. I didn't kill _everyone._ Someone had to survive to tell the story. When the Republic hears that the Empire slaughtered thousands of colonists who surrendered? There won't be any more 'peaceful resolutions.'”

 

“You're not doing this for the SIS, and you're not doing it alone,” Cipher declared. “And I _will_ find out who you are working for.”

 

“Time for me to go,” said Hunter. “And you need to stop coming after me, Cipher Nine. Because without anonymity, you won't last long – and I can make your operations very public.”

 

Hunter's image winked out, and Vector asked, “Can he?”

 

“I don't doubt it,” Cipher replied easily. “If he got my keyword, I'm sure he could have got anything else he wanted. But he'll also have found that there is very little in my past that he could hold over me or against me, so it's an idle threat and we both know it. My name has been changed more than once; it can change again. And as for my appearance? I already know a dozen ways to address that; even the Eagle's terror cell on Tatooine had holographic disguises, and Imperial Intelligence technology far outstrips that. If he thought this would rattle me, then he is getting sloppy.”

 

The appearance of Watcher Three again leaped up on the holocommunicator, reporting apologetically, “I couldn't trace him, blast it! I'll pull what I can from the machinery, but he's more right than he knows. The survivors are a problem.”

 

“They are harmless,” Cipher corrected him. “They surrendered before, now they're half-dead and terrified, and my own team is poised to give them medical attention. They won't be trouble.”

 

“As soon as word gets out what happened,” objected Watcher Three, “other worlds we've captured will rebel. Watchers Seven and Nine are strategizing. They recommend eliminating the survivors on Isen Four so the news of the massacre is contained.”

 

“Except,” Cipher countered with an edge to her voice, “this station isn't going to be ignored and abandoned by the Republic for long. It doesn't exist in a vacuum. Someone will come to check on it. They will find this bloodbath, and traces of Imperial involvement – my ship's signature of docking at the airlock, for example. Just the presence of the bodies littering the hallways will cause the Republic to automatically assume this was perpetrated by the Empire, and there will be no containing or countering the story. Even if you blow this station up, the Republic will still believe it was us! What you are suggesting is both illogical and unconscionable, and I won't do it.”

 

“Then our troops will waste time putting down bloody rebellions instead of winning the war,” Watcher Three insisted.

 

“Not if the surviving colonists are grateful to us for saving their lives,” Cipher pointed out. She wasn't trying to be defiant or recalcitrant for obstinacy's sake; she was certain that she could salvage the situation without further murder. However, she was aware that standing upon this conviction simultaneously walked her perilously close to insubordination, and she was conscious of the fortunate fact that her keyword had been broken. “They become our mouthpiece, telling what happened here, and that the Empire rescued them. It's gratitude, not terror.”

 

Vector held still, not interfering, but personally resolved to reinforce Cipher's stance should it come to a battle of wills. Her solution, he felt, was excellently diplomatic, and while it had its risks, the Empire stood to gain a great deal in terms of unofficial propaganda.

 

“Sir, look...” Watcher Three sighed. “I have scans of the station; I can give you the coordinates of the largest cluster of life-forms. Maybe you can negotiate something. But I need to send in the death squads soon. Your reputation may be secure, but mine isn't.”

 

Cipher had her doubts about that – there was no such thing as a secure reputation. One error could destroy it, and she recognized she was putting hers on the line, along with her career and life, if she had read the situation improperly. Following Watcher Three's directions, she and Vector found the bulk of the surviving colonists hiding in a storage bay, including the remorseful Representative Omana Tragg, bitterly ruing his decision to surrender to the Empire.

 

“It wasn't us,” Cipher told him, “but that is not the most important issue here. Listen to me, representative. I want to get your people out of this alive. Let me help you escape. Tell me what you need to get off this colony. We don't have much time.”

 

Tragg was incredulous, but his associate, Commander Phytus, pointed out that they couldn't be in much worse of a position, and here was someone who was at least offering to help. But the escape pods were sabotaged, too, and only an activation of the fail-safes would reset the system to allow the survivors to escape. Cipher agreed to do it – on a condition.

 

“When you're gone, spread the word. Isen Four was not destroyed by the Empire. We are the first Imperials to arrive here, and we are clearly not a conquering force. We were sent in advance of the Imperial forces to formally accept the surrender and ensure first contact between us was as peaceful as possible.” For now, it appeared that Hunter had had no more deeper motive than to entrench the war more firmly in people's hearts by setting up the Empire as the slaughterers of surrendering innocents. But would a story of a shadowy puppet-master even be believed? An indistinct and unidentified force pushing and pulling from the secret places of the galaxy? If she didn't know it first-hand for herself, she wouldn't believe it either. There was still a way, however, to ensure the Empire came out on top, and it was time to make Hunter's machinations work for her instead of against her. She gave the survivors the script they were to follow. “Isen Four was destroyed by a member of the Republic SIS.”

 

“Save us,” said Phytus, “and I'll repeat any story you want.”

 

Cipher held up her end of the deal, activating the fail-safes and watching the escape pods launch out into the depths of space like tiny shooting stars. Whether the survivors would keep their end of the bargain was out of her hands, but as Tragg spoke over the com channel from his escape pod, thanking her for their deliverance, she had a hope that indeed they would.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The chrysalis quest _is_ after the Anora conversation, but I found that narratively/dramatically, it worked very well to blend them together this way. It also enabled me to address some of the other companion quest conversations (Lokin's curiosity about Vector and continuing research) though the simple expedient of an oblique reference. In-game, the Minister says the Empire arrives "tomorrow," but I gave a slightly longer and more distinct time frame to allow for the time these two quests would take.
> 
> 2\. "...have bad feeling about this." Seriously, who wouldn't figure out a way to work this line into anything Star Wars related? It's like it's not Star Wars without it! Somewhere, I am certain I will include some variant on "I love you/I know." 
> 
> 3\. "...doesn't exist in a vacuum." Except, as a SPACE station, it totally does, hahaha.
> 
> 4\. I may rightly be condemned for making Cipher and Vector's course _too smooth_. It's true, they have not yet learned how to fight or disagree, at least, not meaningfully. This will happen, but I have a number of reasons for writing them the way that I have. 
> 
> In playing this game, I have felt strongly that their story (as I have played it, anyway) is that of two mature, rational adults who have come to genuinely care for each other, and that is the story I want to tell. I admit I'm not a particular fan of relationships that are based on volatility - jumping to conclusions and big fights and makeup sex. The passion feels fake, that it can't exist without verbal violence coming before. This doesn't fall under my personal definition of real love, but is only based in lust and selfishness, like an immature drama-queen.
> 
> Disagreements _are_ something Vector and Cipher will have to figure out how to handle, and I expect them to do so with the same sort of consideration they have so far demonstrated towards each other. They don't always exercise forethought on how their words or behavior will impact the other, but they have the capacity to review it after the fact and learn from it. Cipher and Vector have so many challenges thrown at them by their work/the galaxy/fate/life that I don't feel the need to invent additional drama just for the sake of drama. Their time together is about the only opportunity they have to shut all of that conflict out.
> 
> When I was about 15, I read the 1744 novel "The Adventures of David Simple" by Sarah Fielding (the younger sister of the more famous Henry Fielding, who wrote "Tom Jones"), and, although it would not have occurred to me at the time, in retrospect, I can say that I do think it had an impact on my outlook on relationships and relationship behavior. It's both a sentimental and satirical novel, highlighting moral issues in English society through the misadventures of the hero, David Simple - an honest and innocent young gentleman in search of honest, genuine friendship. He is often deceived by appearances, but after many encounters, he finds an equally good-hearted, guileless young woman, and they wed, providing the sort of happy ending arising from the typical 18th c. novels that espoused Christian ideals such as rewarding virtue. The two characters are almost ridiculously considerate of each other, each not wanting to upset the other. When they are forced to part from two close friends (another married couple) in the 1753 sequel, they refrain from crying and grieving, instead parting with smiles, because they don't want their friends to be saddened by their seeing their grief. Bystanders observe that they must not actually care about each other at all since they show no sadness over separating, although the truth of the matter is they care more about their loved ones than they do about themselves, and are trying not to add to their loved ones' burdens. This is the sort of regard for each other I see Cipher and Vector developing.
> 
> I don't believe anyone can be _that_ good all the time, but it gave my 15-year-old self something to internalize although it would be years before I'd ever have any sort of practical experience (I still fail at it, I admit, but it's an unattainable model). Realizing the lessons I took from this book as an impressionable teen, I can see how there is a concern about books of poorer quality (I'm looking at YOU, "Twilight") affecting upcoming generations...but there's many an influence on a young lady's mind, and I don't believe in blaming books for making girls romantic any more than I believe in video games making boys violent.


	14. Mistakes

“Agent,” Doctor Lokin called from the medical bay, spying Cipher as she passed by, “might I have a moment of your time?”

 

The _Phantom_ wasn't going to cross into Imperial space for hours yet, and Cipher was more than tired and frustrated with the futility of turning over Hunter and his intrigues in her mind, picking at the details for an overlooked clue. Too little information, too many possible conclusions. A distraction was a welcome change.

 

“This had better not,” she warned, walking through the door, “be another lecture about getting enough sleep, or proper nutrition, or some other petty detail.”

 

“Good health is never a petty detail,” Lokin replied with his usual genial imperturbability. “But no, I have a number of other more serious considerations I would like to bring to your attention. I have hesitated, as you certainly have enough on your mind, but now that some of these things have moved beyond my mere personal interests, I thought you should know.”

 

His cool gravity struck Cipher; Lokin had been part of Intelligence and had worked with many operatives before. Cipher had studied him sufficiently to trust his instinct, rather than dismiss him as a paranoid. If he thought there was cause for concern, then he deserved to be heard.

 

“You have my attention,” Cipher gestured for him to begin.

 

“How well do you know the people on this ship? How much do you trust them?” Lokin asked, not beating around the bush.

 

Taken aback, Cipher eyed him closely, then dodged the question. “You are implying there is a reason I shouldn't.”

 

“I have noted there are some unusual communications being sent from this ship. I've noted them in the log, here,” he pointed to a readout on a data pad. “Also here, and here. And another here. Someone on this ship is being awfully chatty.”

 

“Vector has been working with the Diplomatic Service,” Cipher explained. “He is in contact with them frequently. This is likely related to his work.”

 

“But encoded, as these are?” Lokin queried.

 

“Then it isn't him,” Cipher said stalwartly. “Everyone on this ship has access to the array.”

 

“True,” Lokin shrugged. “I admit Kaliyo was my first thought, but I'm trying to assess all possibilities.”

 

“Lokin...” Cipher was beginning to wish she had kept walking when he had called out to her.

 

“Cipher, you have put together a good team here.” Lokin fixed a serious eye on Cipher. “But there is something going on on this ship, and you need to uncover what it is. I don't think I need to tell you what this could mean.”

 

He certainly did not. Her brain had already flicked between half a dozen immediate possibilities: It could be entirely innocent; one of her team working on their own independent projects, for example, or even Temple getting in touch with her father; as a former member of Intelligence, he could very well desire his messages sent and received under encryption. Or it might not be so innocent: If Imperial Intelligence couldn't control her via the keyword, they may have recruited one of her team to surreptitiously surveil and report on her actions. More ominously, Hunter could have gotten to one of them and the reports were going not to Keeper, but to Hunter's hidden confederacy of plotters. It could even be Lokin himself, deflecting suspicion from himself by divulging the information before it was noticed. Cipher passed a hand over her brow and asked, “How long ago did you discover this? And how long has it been going on?”

 

“About thirteen minutes, plus or minus two minutes, for your first question,” Lokin replied, “And as to your second? Some couple of weeks, it appears, although I have not double-checked the logs to be sure.”

 

“What prompted you to look into this, anyway?” Cipher inquired, not entirely convinced yet herself of Lokin's purported innocence.

 

“Some of my own research, in fact. Those personal interests of my own I mentioned,” Lokin answered with a dismissive wave of his hand.

 

“And those are...?” Cipher was starting to get a little fed up with the idea of secrets on her own ship, and she resolved not to be put off by Lokin's deflections. Her hands might be tied in regards to Hunter and his cronies, but she'd be damned if that would be the case on board her own ship.

 

“You recall I once told you I had hidden safe houses all over the galaxy? And that the security system in one had tripped under what appeared to be a false alarm?”

 

Cipher nodded. “Let me guess: not so false an alarm?”

 

“No,” Lokin shook his head and handed her the detailed report he had compiled. “It was a deliberate attack. I've retrieved the sensor logs; there were three intruders, two of them were genetically enhanced humans. None of them survived. Someone is trying to kill me.”

 

“And you want to know if these communications have anything to do with you,” Cipher surmised, skimming through Lokin’s assembled data. “And you want me to be the one to find that out.”

 

Lokin beamed a pleased smile at her. “If you would be so kind.”

 

“Fine,” Cipher sighed. “Meanwhile, dig into those transmissions further, and let me know if anything happens.”

 

“Of course,” Lokin replied. “I always enjoy a puzzle.”

 

\- - - -

 

“Good news, Agent,” Vector turned his pleased face towards her as she entered the cargo bay, too excited to see the reservations in her aura. “We have heard from the Diplomatic Service; things are beginning to move. There are hints that a formal meeting with the Killiks may be possible. It is but the first notes, but it may be a prelude to a treaty.”

 

Paha knew she should be pleased at the news, and thought some part of her was, but she was distracted by the whirlwind of apprehensions, suspicions, and concerns spinning dizzily in her head and she fell somewhat short of mustering an appropriately enthusiastic response. He promptly caught the troubled tone in her voice as she answered, “Vector, that's great.”

 

“Agent? Is there anything wrong?”

 

Embarrassed at being caught giving him less than her full attention, she closed her eyes briefly, shaking away her worried, glum feeling, then answered, “I'm sorry, Vector; the news really is wonderful. It's what you've been hoping for.”

 

“What we've been working towards _together_ ,” he pointed out, noting that although her voice was cheerier, her aura of disappointment did not alleviate. “But you did not answer our question.”

 

Cipher sighed, wishing she could ignore what Lokin had told her. “Someone has been making secret communications from this ship.”

 

Vector found himself struggling to understand the inscrutable tone in her voice, the closed expression on her unreadable face, and the confused appearance of her jumbled feelings, and hazarded a dangerous assumption. “And you think this person is us?”

 

“What? No!” she exclaimed, startled and shocked. “No, never! But... someone on this ship _is_.”

 

There was a brief silence as Vector mulled over this information and its implications, but before he had finished, she broke into his thoughts with an abrupt question.

 

“Vector, why did the Diplomatic Service send you to Alderaan?”

 

Puzzled, Vector put his head to one side, considering her before answering. Cipher had an excellent memory for minute detail; it was unlike her to have forgotten such a salient point of her mission to Alderaan. What was she looking for?   “To support House Thul,” he replied, “and to secure the alliance of other key houses. Surely you were aware of that?”

 

“And the Killiks?” she inquired next. “How did they factor in?”

 

“We were selected to initiate first contact with them.”

 

“Initiate first contact,” Paha repeated musingly, then, more directly, asked, “Then how did you come to Join? Most humans don't relate to Killiks well; how would Joining the Colony have helped you in your diplomatic role?”

 

It wouldn't, of course. Vector had once lamented that he was doubly-compromised: no longer human, and no longer a diplomat, and something about this was bothering her, even more so since she found she couldn't put her finger on it.

 

Cipher thought back to Alderaan, to the fall of House Cortess, the noble family whose matriarch was secretly bankrolling Darth Jadus' front of an anti-Imperial terrorist network. It was a plain and simple case of abject treason, and she had treated it as such: since House Cortess could not be trusted to make their own decisions, she chastised them by permanently revoking their privilege and ability to do so. She had turned the castle and its occupants over to the Oroboro Killik Colony, who converted the structures to a ready-made hive and the survivors into Joiners, human automatons subjugated to the collective mind, while the dead were harvested to feed the Killik larvae. At the time, the decision did not bother her, but now, after the experience of being controlled, she had some measure of empathy for the denizens of House Cortess – but not enough to feel guilt over her choice. They had committed treason. She had not, although the Dark Council clearly saw that in a different light.

 

Before meeting Yoganerr Thenoth, Vector had said that the Joining should be a gift. Cipher had exploited the Oroboro Killiks to use it as a punishment, and yet he had approved. Into which category, gift or penalty, fell Vector's Joining? She had seen how others treated him as the direct result of his Joining: ostracized from the Diplomatic Service, rejected by his former friends and colleagues, expelled from a society that was rarely openly welcoming to even the most human-like of alien races. He had to have been aware of these potential outcomes in some capacity before Joining, and that Joining would be life-changing in the most fundamental and extraordinary of ways. Were these changes more than he had anticipated, if he Joined of his own volition? Or had he never intended on Joining at all?

 

“We do not...” Vector answered hesitantly. “We're not certain what you mean.”

 

“Please,” Paha insisted, “Can you tell me what you remember about Joining? Was it voluntary?”

 

Vector cast his mind back. His memories of the time period around Joining were the most indistinct. As he reacquainted himself with his human half, his recollection of his old life had become clearer, more personal and less remote, while all his experiences since his Joining were now part of the collective unwritten biological history of the hive. But the period of transition, the act of Joining and what had come just before and immediately after, were lost in an indelible haze, one he suspected would never be expunged. He had never tried to recall the Joining before, and the realization of that somewhat surprised him. What had it felt like? Had it hurt?

 

“We have no memories of that,” said Vector, with a wary caution. “Agent, why are we starting to get the feeling that this is an interrogation?”

 

“I'm sorry, I don't mean for it to be one,” Paha answered, pressing her fingertips to the bridge of her nose, a motion that was ineffectual at alleviating the beginnings of a headache. Her thoughts were pushing themselves upon her with automatic rapidity, producing the kind of interconnected conclusions between seemingly isolated ideas and incidents that made up such a key part of her instincts. “But I have to know.”

 

“Why?” he demanded. “Why does it matter?”

 

“Because if you were manipulated – if the Killiks forcibly Joined you...” Paha faltered, then rushed on, “...to get information on the Empire – Vector, I have shared incredibly sensitive information with you, and some of the most top secret operations of the Empire. You are directly tied to the hive mind, which means that these Imperial secrets are open to the Killiks. If the Killiks use this information, then I am guilty of treason!”

 

Stunned, Vector stared at her, shocked and hurt at the implications rather than angry, but nonetheless he took his time in studying her and crafting his response. Her aura was wounded, trickling out her faith in her team in little sparkles of fading light.

 

“Agent,” he said at length, then corrected himself, “Paha. We don't understand.” Paha gaze flicked away from him and Vector's hurt deepened, strident and harsh against his soul. “You think we have caused you to commit treason? Have we given you a reason not to trust us?”

 

Hearing the unmitigated pain in his voice, Paha felt suddenly sick with horror at the realization of what she had said and what she had done. Suddenly wrapped up with obsessive ideas of suspicion and betrayal, she had pursued a latent idea from the depths of her brain out into the open, with no consideration for the consequences. She felt that she couldn't have done more damage if she had directly stabbed him through the heart with her vibroblade, and she clapped a hand to her face as if her palm, far too late, could catch the thoughtless words that had spilled from her mouth.

 

“No. No, I'm sorry," she whispered, so low he nearly didn't catch it. "I – "

 

Unable to face him, not seeing his outstretched hand, she turned away and almost fled out the door, and he stood there a moment, contemplating the fading stains of the light of her spilled faith, scattered on the floor like droplets of blood.

 

Some time later, Vector raised his head. He had spent the last half hour in deep meditation, mulling over the vision of those long-vanished spots and Paha's injured emotions, and examining his with equal scrutiny. He had more confidence now in his emotional conclusions and reactions than he once had had, and without hesitation, he left the cargo hold and aimed his steps directly for the bridge, where his instincts told him she would be. She sat at the pilot console, touching nothing and staring out into the dark depths of space.

 

She was not aware of his entrance at first, and he looked at her for a long moment, observing her aura, hugged close about her, a cloak of the desolate seclusion of remorse. Remorse? The word came to him spontaneously, and he promptly felt its correctness: not anger, not accusation, not offense, not indignation, but remorse, mixed with a measure of shame. He must have made some noise then, a shuffling of his foot or rustling of his sleeve, for she sensed him then and half-turned towards him, and he entered, struck by the appearance of purple circles beneath her eyes.

 

“We thought," he said quietly as he came in and sat in an adjoining console chair, "that we might talk."

 

In response to her sorrowful nod, he continued, "We have given this a great deal of thought, and we believe it comes down to something very simple. Without respect and without trust, there is nothing between us."

 

Paha's heart sank within her, misery surging within her chest, rising up to choke her with the knowledge that she had taken something wonderful and smashed it with base conjecture and her own two hands. She could rationalize the blame onto Lokin's shoulders, for first suggesting she investigate her crew, but she knew this wasn't his fault. This was entirely a mess of her own making. She looked at Vector and waited for the axe to fall.

 

“So we have one question. Do you trust us?" His eyes glittered darkly, and she stared back into them, thinking of all the times she had fought with him at her side, never doubting that he had her back. She thought of how she had let him stay at her bedside when she slept, as she had let no one stay before. She thought of how she had been prepared to die to save him and how he had made that readiness unnecessary.

 

Vector already knew the answer to his inquiry. He had figured it out long ago, back on their first visit to Quesh, perhaps before she even knew it herself. It was one thing, he decided, for her to follow her instincts – they so often led her right – and these instincts had prompted her to trust him. It was something else entirely for her to be put to the issue, and demanded to make a conscious decision in order to respond. And so he had made it a straightforward question, requiring a straightforward answer, with no clauses, no equivocations, no qualifiers, just a simple reply of a single word.

 

“Yes,” she said, her voice firm with conviction.

 

"Then," Vector returned, "we have nothing to discuss. We are satisfied."

 

"What?" Paha was bewildered by the sudden conclusion.

 

“Trust,” Vector said. “That is the central spark of the issue. You trust us, and we trust you. That is all there is to it.”

 

“But...” Paha stammered. “I – ”

 

“Was mistaken,” Vector supplied.

 

“– accused you of something terrible,” Paha corrected sorrowfully. "I'm sorry; I'm an ass. I don't even know how...” She paused, and he didn't interrupt, sensing she was working through something in her mind.

 

“No,” she said at length, “I think I do. Most of my adult life has been spent in conspiracies, either perpetuating them or uncovering them. I have been taught to keep watch for when, not if, the betrayal will happen. It was always to be considered as an inevitability, not a possibility.”

 

“A natural extension of your training,” observed Vector without judgement.

 

“But it shouldn't be,” Paha insisted, her realization dawning a conviction and a fresh stab of shame. “Oh, what an awful excuse: 'It's my job.' You - you aren't part of my job, and I should never treat you as such. I did. I didn't mean to, but I did. And I am sorry for that, too.”

 

“We know,” he replied, offering her a serene smile. “But we _are_ part of your job, as you are part of ours. But only just part. Not the whole. Or even the majority part.”

 

“And I will remember that from now on,” she promised. She drew a long breath, and, with a flicker of a shaky, nervous smile flitting over her face in response to his understanding one, said, “So... now that I have done my level best to cause complete destruction, where does that leave us?”

 

Vector looked down at his hands, broad-palmed and long-fingered and callused from wielding his electrostaff through hundreds of battles, seeing the currents of life that flowed through them, then back at her.

 

"We are still here," he replied. "We are not destroyed."

 

"Are _we_?” Paha asked meaningfully. "I mean, we as in us, not we as in you."

 

“Of course not. And why do you think of those as exclusive of each other?” Vector answered encouragingly. He was used to thinking in plurals; it was something she had yet to learn. She had no answer.

 

"Stand up," he ordered, taking her hands with his and drawing her to her feet after him as he stood. She was puzzled, but obeyed, and was surprised and touched as he released her hands to place his arms around her in an embrace that was as acute in its tenderness as her anguish had been sharp just minutes earlier. His love for her was of a kind that forgave generously, and he felt the stiffness of tension flow from her relaxing muscles as she buried her forehead in his shoulder, inhaling as though she could breathe in his serenity.

 

A thought struck her then, and she raised her head to look up at him. Due to the delay caused by Anora's message and the hazards of approaching Isen Four, there had been no time to ask the question she had for him now: "Your ritual," she inquired, "the Chrysalis of Tranquility – how did it go?"

 

“A great success,” he answered, pleased. “Sometimes, Agent, in the midst of our meditations, we can catch just the smallest glimpses of the Song of the Cosmos. It is a great eternal symphony, so vast it is almost impossible to take in, and every world, every planet, every thing, living or not, dances to its tune. In the chrysalis, we could hear fragments of the song with a clarity we had never heard before. We found ourselves thinking the Song moves in patterns and repeats, with all that happened before shaping all that is to come, and then to happen again. We find it comforting.”

 

“You do?” Paha said in surprise.

 

“You don't?”

 

"If the universe moves in repeating patterns,” reasoned Paha, “then doesn't that mean this war will never end? It seems that it is destined to continue forever. So why do we bother? Where is the free will? If all of this is fated, then our efforts will always be meaningless and futile." In retrospect, it was odd to talk of free will and fate with a Joiner, but Vector was hardly a typical hive representative.

 

“We had not thought of it in such terms,” he considered, contemplating her viewpoint. "Your dream did not efface your own free will, after all, did it? Only Hunter's keyword did that. We see the Song - we hear it – as a thing of wonderful beauty, as enchanting as it is terrifying. We find a sense of peace in knowing that the universe will play on with or without us, but we also have a sense of purpose and belonging in hearing how our song fits into the cosmic chorus. Our efforts are neither meaningless nor futile, as our efforts are what shape the melodies of our lives. We are sparks rising in the night, just as strong as the brightest of stars.”

 

Paha found herself wishing she could, just once, see and hear the universe through his enhanced senses instead of her own mundane eyes and ears. Did he ever wish he did not perceive so much? Did it ever become overwhelming?

 

“I'm still not sure I understand,” she admitted. “But I'm happy that you're happy.”

 

“It means,” Vector attempted a more concrete explanation, and a note of joy crept into his voice, “we can scent the pulse of your heart. We can taste particles of solar radiation bead like dew on our lips. And,” he added, dipping his head lower, “also on yours, too.”

 

He kissed her, a tender gesture of forgiveness and fondness, and her response blended contrition and comfort, and they met somewhere in the undefined middle between. The dew of the stars on her lips tasted strongly of the salt of tears, and he kissed her until the salt was gone, and only the dew remained.

 

"My brave, strange protector,” Paha marveled, still somewhat mystified at the outcome. She was not used to making mistakes – in her line of work, errors were generally ill-tolerated, and had a troubling tendency to result in death. The harsh penalties her family had incurred of their own people had instructed her from an early age that forgiveness, even for offenses most casual, was not something to be expected. To have been forgiven, freely and openly, confounded her. “You know I'm glad to have you.”

 

“We do, now,” Vector answered. “We were not always so confident. And it was not so very long ago we reflected that you don't often need protecting.”

 

“Perhaps not. There are very few things I _need_. Or anyone needs, really. Food, water, air, shelter,” Paha related her rather limited and literal interpretation of the word. “Intelligence generally supplies these for me, even down to the uniform I wear. So I am often much more concerned with what I _want_ , as that is what I usually am denied. And Vector – I _want_ your protection… and to protect you, too.”

 

She could feel the blush creeping up her face. “I want _you_ ,” she added, rising up on her toes to kiss him again.

 

“Then,” he murmured softly around her lips, “we will not deny your want.”

 

They were still entwined together when a cough from the doorway interrupted them a moment later, and they sprang apart automatically, both sharing some tacit notion to keep their relationship secret, although they had obviously just been caught.

 

“I beg your pardon,” said Lokin genially, “but Kaliyo is looking for you. I thought you might better appreciate my interrupting you than her.”

 

“Thank you, Doctor,” Cipher replied demurely, composing herself. So much for their belief that they had been successfully covert. She exchanged a glance with Vector, and Lokin followed behind her as she left the bridge in search of her friend.

 

“Look, I’m sorry to dump this on you,” Kaliyo said without preamble as soon as she saw Cipher. “But you’re going to have to live without me for a little while. It’ll be quick, but I need some time off to wrap up some personal things.”

 

“I won’t keep you,” Cipher replied. Long before, she had helped out Kaliyo as she tracked down a series of former business partners who had variously put, threatened to put, or had the potential to put, bounties on Kaliyo for her former transgressions. She hoped such measures wouldn’t be required again, but she risked the question. “Is there anything I can do?”

 

“Nice of you to ask, but no,” Kaliyo assured.

 

Cipher was startled, although not by Kaliyo’s refusal, but by Lokin’s sudden interruption as he popped up beside them. “Ah, I was worried I’d miss your departure, Kaliyo. We’ve had our differences, but I wanted to wish you the best of luck. I’m sure the Wheezer and his Revolutionary Edge Brigade will be delighted to have you back.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kaliyo said calmly, but Cipher thought she detected a note of evasive defiance in her voice, and Lokin turned his attention to her.

 

“I am surprised that you would permit this, though,” Lokin continued, “letting Kaliyo see her old anarchist friends must violate any number of Imperial regulations.”

 

“Clearly,” Cipher said with careful neutrality, “I haven’t been filled in.”

 

“I’ve traced the encoded messages sent from this ship to the leader of the Brentaal anarchists,” Lokin explained.

 

“That’s – ” Kaliyo began, then broke off. “Look, it’s not what you think. The Wheezer got in touch, said he needed help. Didn’t say why, but I figure security’s cracking down on the cell again.”

 

“This man leads the anarchist group?” Cipher inquired.

 

“He’s one of the guys who started it,” Kaliyo acknowledged. “He taught me everything.”

 

“He’s hit mostly corporate targets, but Imperial assets seem fair game for the REB as well,” Lokin added, “just less convenient.”

 

“The Wheezer was good to me,” explained Kaliyo, “ so I thought I’d lend a hand. I didn’t want you involved. I didn’t want anyone killed. I kept it secret to protect you.”

 

“Kaliyo,” Cipher pointed out patiently, “when I don’t know what is happening on my ship among my own crew, it makes me look incompetent, and that protects no one. You should have told me.”

 

“Okay, then,” Kaliyo returned, “come back with me and watch my back. We’ll buy him off somehow. Might actually survive that way. I’ll get in touch with him – one call to set up the meeting. Last I knew, he was on Hutta.”

 

“Not far out of the way on our return to Dromund Kaas. Do it,” Cipher nodded. She had just had her own hard-earned lesson in forgiveness; she could give herself the practice of extending that grace to others. “And Kaliyo – all you had to do was ask.”

 

“Thanks,” Kaliyo answered with uncharacteristic seriousness as she headed for the bridge to the communications array.

 

Asking – particularly asking for help – wasn’t generally part of Kaliyo’s mode of life. Neither was being part of a team that relied on each other, and, for that matter, neither was gratitude. That Kaliyo was engaging herself to help her old colleague, rather than dismiss him, or, have him killed, as her prior business associates, was a matter of interest to Cipher. It suggested that Kaliyo could be loyal to someone, or something, after all, and that was worth some consideration. Cipher turned to look at Lokin.

 

“Doctor, that was a little cruel,” she pointed out.

 

“Sometimes,” he replied, “you have to cut into healthy flesh to get to the underlying injury.”

 

“Be that as it may, I don’t appreciate being blindsided, either. I know you have your secrets, and I let you keep them in your own way. But, don’t,” Cipher spoke precisely, “send me into a situation while you withhold pertinent information. You set this up to out Kaliyo’s doings, but it has done nothing for your credibility, either.”

 

Leaving Lokin to contemplate her admonishment, Cipher crossed the ship to the cargo hold, entering somewhat hesitantly in spite of herself and the forgiveness Vector had so freely offered her. Sensing her approach, he turned towards her as she entered, about to ask what had happened with Kaliyo, but amended his question as he looked at her.

 

“Agent,” he greeted her as she took the hand he held out to her. “When was the last time you slept?”

 

A jumbled idea that intermingled Vector and a bed brought a tinge of purple to her cheeks, but she could only shrug tiredly in response. He sat down on one of the crates, drawing her after him, and placed an arm around her, turning to offer her head a rest in the hollow of his shoulder. A moment later she heard the soft tones of a simple melody, and could feel its low vibration rumbling in his chest below her cheek, and she recognized it although she had heard just once before – the night she had been awakened by her alarming dream to find Vector at her bedside. She let the waves of sound wash over her, relaxing her and pushing away the torments and cares of the day.   They were still nestled together when, hours later, Doctor Lokin rapped on the wall and informed them that the _Phantom_ was now in Hutt space.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This chapter gave me trouble. I think I did at least 3 or 4 major rewrites on it. It was extremely important that Cipher and Vector's argument was believable topically AND gave them both opportunities to grow, AND that they act according to how I've established their personalities: Cipher is logical and quick to draw conclusions from things that are seemingly unrelated, but doesn't always think at how this might affect people who are more sensitive (Chiss are often accused of being insensitive). Vector is all about understanding others and making peace. So I think - I hope, anyway - that I handled them pretty well. It also alludes to additional parts of Vector's backstory that are only revealed in Lokin's quests.
> 
> Anyway, I _think_ I am pretty happy with my final rewrite. Hopefully, I won't re-read it in a day or two, think it totally dumb, and re-do it *again*.
> 
> 2\. I mashed together a TON of other companion quest conversations in this chapter. I don't want to spend too long belaboring many of these rather incidental chats.
> 
> 3\. "His love for her was of a kind that forgave generously." I normally don't quote other works, but this one comes from Volume 5 of Samuel Richardson's "Clarissa, or, A History of a Young Lady," in which Lovelace laments "She loves me not enough to forgive me generously." Lovelace is an self-absorbed jackass and a rake, but he does occasionally make some pointedly accurate observations, although he is too arrogant to ever learn from them - in this case, he is upset that Clarissa won't forgive him for entering her room in the middle of the night to try to rape her. He uses her "coldness" as an excuse to treat her even more badly.
> 
> 4\. I felt that Lokin's ambush of Kaliyo and her anarchist friends' requests was rather passive-aggressively dickish. Understandable, yes, but still dickish.


	15. Boundaries and Biology

Vector looked out from the door of the cargo hold as he heard the hiss of the main hatch door, and was surprised at what he saw: Cipher and Kaliyo’s return from Hutta was expected, but their relative behavior was not.  Without her usual saucy banter, Kaliyo disappeared into the bunk room she shared with Temple, while Cipher wordlessly headed directly for the bridge, her aura bearing again the wounded appearance he had healed so recently.  He promptly followed her.

 

Cipher was already spinning up the engines to depart Hutta’s spaceport, and he gave her a few minutes to complete the exchange of clearance and departure signals before coming to stand beside her.  Just his presence was a comfort, and as she set the _Phantom_ back on its course for Dromund Kaas, Cipher, without preamble, flatly stated, “Kaliyo has been selling Imperial secrets to the Brentaal anarchists.”

 

That explained a great deal, and in response, he simply laid a comforting hand on her shoulder.  She reached up to place her hand over his, and sighed.  “She claimed it was nothing mission-sensitive, mostly spaceport blueprints and names of important individuals, but that is damage enough.”

 

Vector didn’t need to ask about the focus of her concern.  Cipher’s position required her absolute control over what happened on board her ship, and Kaliyo’s activities exposed her to charges of incompetence and treason.  When united with her history of slaying a member of the Dark Council, breaking into Imperial Intelligence Archives, and joining a Republic SIS team, Kaliyo’s actions could be used to construct a very bleak case against Cipher indeed, in spite of the extenuating circumstances surrounding each event – and the Dark Council had already demonstrated a considerable eagerness to remove her as a threat to their ambitions.  When he construed her history in this light, it cast a fresh ray of illumination over the accusation she had inadvertently laid at his door, and he saw now how his own position could be leveraged as another charge against her.  He had not intended to dismiss her concerns about the link of his mind to the Killik hive, but he realized now he had never addressed them, and that he would need to.  Small wonder she had been so upset when he could not explain the conditions of his Joining.  In truth, it was starting to bother him, as well – but that was an issue for another time.

 

“What happened?” he inquired.

 

“The Wheezer double-crossed her.  Whatever deal he had cooked up went right out the airlock as soon as he saw me.  Called me a ‘gift,’ and that he intended to harvest my eyes and hands to get past biometric scanners for some of their upcoming targets.”

 

Reflexively, Vector’s hand tightened on her shoulder, and Cipher knotted her fingers comfortingly through his in response.

 

“You’d have been proud of me; I tried for a diplomatic solution,” Cipher added, a note of acrid amusement in her voice.  “But the Wheezer wouldn’t take no for an answer.  I wanted to kill him.  I should have killed him, but Kaliyo had expressly asked me not to, more than once.  I was trying to show some… faith in her, I suppose.  Either way, I left him alive.  An anarchist striking Imperial targets and I walked away and left him alive.”  Closing her eyes, she shook her head ruefully and sighed again.  “Hell and stars if I don’t end up with a treason charge from this after all.”

 

“Kaliyo must have appreciated it.  Didn’t she?”

 

“I’m not so sure.  She was pretty outraged that the Wheezer betrayed her.  I thought she might kill him herself.  I’m not sure why she didn’t.  It would have been easier for me if she had, for then I would know that was one less thing in the galaxy that might try to claim whatever loyalty she has.”  And, she did not add, would have done much to combat a charge of collaboration with enemies of the Empire.

 

“Considering her propensity for betraying others,” Vector observed drily, “you would think she would be less surprised when she is on the receiving end.”

 

“The weird thing is,” mused Cipher, “I don’t think she intended to really betray me, or even that she saw the information she passed to the REB as a betrayal.  She specifically refused to pass on mission details, and, all things considered, the information she did give him was fairly low-level stuff, things that could be obtained from any number of channels.  I think she genuinely was trying to protect me in her own odd way, while still keeping an old benefactor happy by tossing him the most innocuous information she could think of.  For her, that’s actually pretty subtle.  But still treasonous.”  Cipher put her head to one side, considering.  “I’ve never asked her to be loyal to the Empire.  I could see that wasn’t ever likely to happen – a former anarchist!  She said it herself once: hypocrisy is a funny thing.   I did rather expect her to be loyal to _me_ , though.”

 

“Honestly, we are rather surprised to learn that Kaliyo might consider herself as loyal to anything.  And in the end, it appears she did choose to return with you, instead of siding with the anarchists.  We think you must rank highly in her opinion.”

 

“Then I hope she values my covering this up for her,” Cipher replied somewhat pithily.

 

“We suspect she does,” Vector said thoughtfully.  Kaliyo’s habitual brashness and standoffishness made her fairly difficult to learn to read but also made her an interesting case study.  There were other aspects to her nature, buried deep beneath her effrontery, and although they had taken him a long time to begin to understand, he thought he might be correct now.  “We saw her when she came in.  The look on her face as she went to her quarters.  She looked… sorry.  As though she might cry.”

 

“What?” Cipher exclaimed, looking up at him in astonishment.  After the confrontation on Hutta, Cipher had kept her anger contained, but hadn’t looked at Kaliyo as they returned to the ship.  “Kaliyo?  The Rattataki who gets her kicks from baiting rancors?  _That_ Kaliyo?  You’re kidding.”

 

“We’re not.”

 

“Whoa.” Silence filled the bridge, supported only by the low hum of the engines, as Cipher turned the matter over in her mind.  Eventually, she added, “In that case, I’m not going to continue to make a big deal of it.  I talked to her about it on the planet; I think she understands how much she screwed up.  Strangely enough, I don’t think I’ll find cause to doubt her again.”

 

In a quiet, serious tone, Vector replied, “We will not give you cause, either.”  In response to her questioning look, he added, “We understand better now your concerns regarding our link with the nest.  We are sorry we did not give it full weight earlier.”

 

Cipher began to make a mollifying gesture to dismiss the subject of their disagreement, but he took her hand mid-wave, and continued, “For much of our travels with you, we have been at a distance that limits easy communication with the Colony, which allows us to maintain the secrets we have been privy to.  As Dawn Herald, we may be able to ensure those remain blocked from the remainder of the hive, but we cannot be certain.  The Empire and the Killiks are not allies yet, and you are correct that there is information not fit for the Killiks to know.  We intend to look into this more, until we may satisfy you that there is no risk to the Empire.”

 

He could see the glow of gratitude in her aura and the shine of light in her eyes as she pressed his hand, murmuring her thanks in words that always seemed inadequate.  Perhaps, she thought as she rose to her feet to face him properly, he would prefer a gesture over words instead.

 

\- - - -

 

Days later, the _Phantom_ sped across the expanses of space for the secret planet of Belsavis, home to the Republic’s most secure prison.  At Intelligence Headquarters on Dromund Kaas, Cipher had met with the Minister of Intelligence and Keeper, who had uncovered a number of curious incidents which bore the indelible stamp of interference from Hunter, or one of his group.  Troublingly, the dates of some of these stretched back for centuries, and the Minister was firm about ensuring these events be kept highly classified.  Even the Dark Council weren’t to know, a prohibition that intrigued Cipher.  The Minister, it seemed, wasn’t averse to risking a charge of treason himself.  Keeper had also uncovered an as-yet unclear link between Hunter’s group and Belsavis, and Cipher was charged with finding out just what was hidden there.  Belsavis was on the other side of the galaxy, almost as far as Hoth.  The trip would be a long one.

 

Vector had finished his shift on the bridge and returned to his customary place in the cargo hold, where time seemed to weigh heavy on his hands now that he no longer had the vision of the distant stars speeding past the windows of the ship.  For a time, his focus on promoting the Killik-Imperial alliance had placed his more personal concerns on a lower rung of his ladder of priorities, but the latest word had demonstrated that there was little more he could do on that front: his efforts had come to fruition, with the Empire and the Killiks agreeing to formal talks.  He had not even told Paha yet, and now, with no other distraction offering itself, he felt he had little choice but to allow his thoughts to focus once again on the dilemma he now found himself unexpectedly caught in.

 

He had long since found that giving any issue a proper measure of due thought – in short, meditation – did much to provide clarity, understanding, and resolution for a course of action, and it was generally his first act when confronted with a challenge, particularly an ethical or emotional one.  But that very practice was what had caught him on the horns of his current predicament.

 

“We’ll work on it,” he had said to Paha.  And he was; that hadn’t been a lie.  In physiological terms, it was fairly simple.  In the nest, among the other non-humanoid Killiks, it was merely that there had been no desire.  Here on the _Phantom_ , living daily side-by-side with Paha, desire had become something like another passenger on board, ever-present and at its most intrusive when he caught an unexpected glimpse of her – either aura or body – or when he was surprised at a sudden current of air, disturbed by her motion, that wafted a hint of her warm scent across the intervening distance between them.  The Killik pheromones had not neutered him, they had just suppressed all his old memories of the feeling of desiring a woman, or of having that desire gratified.  The feeling of wanting was now familiar again to him – achingly so! – but it was the gratification part in conjunction with his usual method of thoughtful problem-solving that troubled him now.

 

Vector had reconnected with his human aspects by resurrecting his old memories, going over each one in turn, exploring them until he was comfortable with the secrets they revealed to him and no longer felt like distant stories that had happened to someone else.  To do that now, to recall the mechanics and techniques of pleasing a woman, meant employing the same method, and that meant forcibly remembering Anora.  To remember _lying with_ Anora, specifically – a woman for whom he now felt nothing: no love, no affection, no anger, no bitterness, just an empty entity that had popped up on his holo unexpectedly, and for whom he had no consideration beyond that which he extended to any sentient creature in the galaxy.  To Vector, Anora was far more of a cipher than Paha was.  His recollection of her was hollow, like a dried-out husk. It was profoundly uncomfortable, most especially when his pursuit of these old memories was interrupted by the sudden image of Paha before his mind’s eye.  Exploiting the memories of one woman to gain some idea of how to please another?  Something about that seemed reprehensible.

 

But then, any person was but the sum of their own experiences, and would not anyone take lessons learned in one instance and apply them to future scenarios?  Would this practice be proper in one set of circumstances – learning from a battle, for example – and yet still be improper in situation such as this?  Or would this practice be different for a person not in his particular position, as one who had been so utterly altered by Joining the Killiks, but who could instead rely on the ordinary memories of their own personal histories?  No matter how he turned the questions over in his head, he could come to no resolution, and, giving up on the ethics of the topic, he would revert back to focusing on the more concrete issue and remember how he had touched Anora, but rather disgusted with himself as he felt more and more strongly that he didn’t want to remember Anora at all.  Not in this way.  Not in a way that would bring her to mind when he most wanted to think of Paha.  And this would bring him right back to his discomfort and the unresolved questions of his conscience.  He sighed.

 

“Trouble with the treaty talks?” came a sudden and welcome voice from the door, and he looked towards the speaker with undisguised happiness.  There had been a recent message from the Diplomatic Service, and Paha had contained her curiosity for all of half an hour before hunting up the details straight from Vector himself.

 

“Not at all,” he answered as Paha entered.  “The best of news, in fact.  We’ve been conferring lately with the ambassadors, Moffs, speakers for the Sith – all with their own agendas and concerns, none with any love for the Killiks.  But we swayed a few, and found ways around others.  Now the Diplomatic Service has agreed to seek a treaty.  Some of the nests are still reluctant – Horoh and Manam in particular – but all parties involved have agreed to a summit.  We’ll preside over the negotiations ourselves.”

 

“That _is_ big news!” Paha exclaimed with unfeigned delight.  “Congratulations; I can’t think of anyone better suited to do so.  I am at your disposal, Vector.  You have my full support.  If there is anything I can do, tell me.”

 

“Thank you, Agent,” Vector replied.  “Imagine… Colony and Imperial representatives in one room.  It shall be interesting.”

 

“And, I hope, beneficial,” said Paha, hoisting herself up on her accustomed perch on top of one of the taller crates, letting her legs dangle against its metal side.  “Has a date been set yet?”

 

“No, but soon,” answered Vector.  “We pushed for an early date, in hopes of limiting the opportunities for minds to be changed.  Fortunately, the Diplomatic Service seems prepared to honor that request.  But for now, we remain here.”

 

“Then you won’t have to go just yet?  Good.”

 

“Something in regards to your work?” he inquired.

 

“Not quite.  Maybe a little,” Paha answered playfully, giving him an arch smile and stretching out a leg to hook her foot behind his knee, nudging him closer.  The height of the crate gave her the extra inch or two needed to put her close to eye level with him, and she leaned forward to kiss him, reaching out both hands to draw him in until he came to rest between her knees.  Vector made a small pleased noise in his throat and slid his arms around her, pulling her body against his and for once enjoying the opportunity to welcome the invisible presence of desire that had been so often intrusive of late.  Judging by her reaction, she had felt its pervasiveness, too; she opened herself further to him, welcoming him past all the defenses and barriers she had forged long ago in fits of self-protection, and indulging in the pleasurable pressure of the solidness of his body pressed to hers.  Even through his closed eyes, he could see the vibrant glow of the sparks that rose burning and brilliant from her aura, flaring in time with the beat of her heart and the electric-like tingle that made her fingers tremble. 

 

When she released him at last, he inhaled, blinking, and opined, “We would not consider that work-related _at all_.”

 

“I’m willing to admit my judgment may be compromised,” Paha conceded with a sly smirk.  “I might require a practical demonstration of what is not work-appropriate behavior.”

 

“We could supply that,” Vector answered, leaning in again.  “We place great value on education.”

 

The sound of footsteps, unnecessarily loud on the deck, came from the corridor beyond the cargo bulkhead door, a preamble to a warning cough, and when Doctor Lokin entered, he found Cipher and Vector seated modestly side-by-side, betrayed only by the heightened colors in their faces. 

 

“Ah, Master Hyllus, Cipher, I hoped I might find you here,” Lokin greeted them ingenuously.  “There is a priority message from the Diplomatic Service.  I presume more details regarding your summit.”

 

Cipher raised her eyebrows, more than certain that she was the first Vector had told of his success without needing to confirm it from him.

 

“…which,” continued Lokin in response to her look, “I know nothing about.  Officially.  But I thought you’d want to know.”

 

“Thank you, Doctor Lokin,” Vector replied with tolerable equanimity, although once the doctor had left, he dropped his forehead onto Paha’s shoulder, which was shaking with barely-contained giggles, and gave a sigh that was almost a groan.  It seemed to be just their luck that interruptions were always the most inopportune and the most importunate, and he resolutely pulled himself upright again.

 

“Duty calls, agent,” he said apologetically as he stood.

 

“Don’t let me keep you,” she answered sweetly, her scarlet eyes dancing brightly with alluring amusement.  That was, of course, exactly what he did want, and the merest glance at her aura told him she, too, would much rather he stay, and they each clearly both knew it.  It took him but a moment to realize that this, too, was part of his relearning process: the subtle step from a flirt to a tease.  As he left the cargo hold and Paha behind him, he reflected that, given how her enticing glances sparked fire in his veins, she would prove to be an adept teacher indeed.

 

Paha took a breath to steady herself as she listened to his retreating footsteps crossing the ship’s deck, and felt the strident beating of her heart, strong enough to make her limbs tremble in time with it.  With Vector, here in the cargo hold, it was easy to feel the rest of the galaxy fade away, and to imagine that they two were alone on board the ship – until the inevitable interruption.  It had been more than time to devise a way to get those interruptions to work for them instead of against them, and based on what she could read in Vector’s expression as he left her, her coquettish ploy at least kept the intrusion from being wholly an unmitigated disappointment.

 

Initially, as they first acknowledged their feelings for each other, the prospect of sharing simultaneously both physical and emotional intimacy was almost frightening, it was such an alien notion to her.   But their recent crisis of trust had highlighted to her the depths of a truth of feeling she had not consciously realized, understood only as Vector demonstrated with his forgiving embrace how corporeal action could embody so keenly a spiritual sensation.  She appreciated now how the physical was a natural extension of the emotional, in contrast to how she had always kept them severely divorced in her past, and if she trembled now at the thought of exchanging the most intimate of touches with Vector, it was with eager and nervous anticipation, not agitated hesitation.

 

She was sure of herself – or thought she was, which was much the same thing – but was less so of him.  His passionate response just now she took as a very positive sign, but she was unequivocally determined not to push him or harry him into any action before he was ready.  Unless, of course, he was doing the same, and was waiting for some more definitive signal from her.  Was he?  She couldn’t be sure, and not for the first time, Paha reflected on what, exactly, he had meant by his promise that he would “work on it.”

 

Paha readily admitted she was no exoentomologist, but from what little she knew of insect colonies, they tended to have a single queen, with the other females kept celibate via the timely application of an array of suppressive biochemicals.  Were the Killiks a typical insect hive in that respect?  Was the only available female of the hive the queen?  Certainly, Killiks were atypical relative to less advanced insect colonies in that they used Joining to assimilate members of other species into their collective, but although that involved a certain amount of genetic manipulation through treatments with Killik pheromones, Paha had a distinct doubt that this would permit any sort of cross-species mating.  Although the Killiks could vastly expand their collective knowledge and phenotypic variability thorough the practice of Joining other individuals, it seemed highly unlikely that the same technique would equally increase the hive genotypic variability, if Joiners were unable to mate successfully with other individuals of the hive.

 

Successfully, that is, meaning the production viable offspring, which would be one of the primary roles of a queen, if she were the only mating female of a hive.  Emphasis, Paha reminded herself, on the _if_ part.  Maybe there were other mating females.  Maybe even non-mating females were allowed their paramours, although that thought in and of itself was an interesting one.  In a collective that shared everything down to a thought, it made sense to consider that partners would be shared just as freely, among those who were capable of engaging in it – however many females that happened to be – and the more so if there were a dearth of males: Mundane insect colonies tended to have only a few, just a sufficient amount to ensure a certain level of genetic diversity in the next generation.  Were the Killiks any different?

 

It was possible that Vector was more than just doubly-compromised, or rather, that he was doubly-compromised in this regard as well as no longer being neither human nor a diplomat – an assessment he had amply disproved, in her consideration.  Aside from that, reasoning from her position of probabilities and assumptions, the mating ability of male Joiners – such as Vector – would be twice unnecessary: high numbers of males were not needed, and Joiners were meaningless in regards to engendering future generations of Killiks.  If insect colonies used pheromones to suppress sexual maturation in non-mating females, the same could be applied to males and Joiners, to remove distracting physical urges that had no benefit to the hive.  The logic worked, even if it was  discomforting.

 

She could ask Doctor Lokin.  He certainly had extensive expertise in the field of xenobiology, had a number of resources at his disposal, and had made two medical surveys of Vector so far, but Paha dropped that idea almost immediately.  She felt Eckard Lokin knew _quite_ enough about her relationship with Vector already, and she wasn’t particularly inclined to give him another avenue of study that would involve anything quite so personal.  There was a danger in over-thinking things, no matter how logical the progression, and she recognized that hazard now, having learned from her prior mistake.  Nearly all of these speculations were predicated from high-level hypotheticals, uncertain assumptions, and sidelong curiosities, and had  largely little to do any of the actual facts before her.  And the facts?  They were simple enough: She was wildly attracted to him, and he gave her every indication that it was mutual.  If Vector had anything else to tell her, she would trust he would do so, of his own volition and on his own time.

 

\- - - -

 

“Cipher,” said Keeper’s image, projected above the holoterminal in the _Phantom_ ’s lounge, “you are now orbiting forty thousand kilometers above the Republic’s largest penal colony.  Fancy rebuilding your criminal reputation?”

 

Cipher gave a smile and a pert response.  “A joke?  I thought you’d swapped your sense of humor for the promotion.”

 

“Only in part,” Keeper answered.  If the new Watchers at Intelligence were any indication, Keeper was one of the last of the old guard, both brilliant and personable.  Cipher had met some of the new Watchers during her last visit to Kaas City, and they were efficient, but cold and unsociable.  Brilliance and loyalty were all well and good for enhanced genetic traits, but it would be a mistake to ignore the little cordial details that were so necessary in enforcing a feeling of camaraderie and joint purpose.  Hopefully, the new Watchers would come to understand this.  Keeper continued, “Proceed, Watcher Three.”

 

“Belsavis prison was built in secret to hold the galaxy’s most dangerous individuals,” Watcher Three began, and Cipher appreciated that Keeper had designated Three – another adherent of the former style – to handle the briefing.  “Three main levels, thousands of specialized cell blocks, holding everyone from changlings to Sith Lords.”

 

“We’ve known of the prison’s existence for nearly a year,” clarified Keeper.  “Now we understand that the conspirators subverted Belsavis to their own use.”

 

“Subverted,” repeated Cipher.  “Not infiltrated, nor taken over.”

 

“The conspirators,” said Watcher Three, “pulled strings with Republic higher-ups to construct a special section: Megasecurity Ward 23.  It’s somewhere past the alien cells and the genocide ward…They built it and sealed it when Belsavis was founded.  No one gets inside.”

 

Keeper cautioned, “It’s the highest security area of the best protected prison in the galaxy.  You’re going to break in and find what its hiding.”

 

“What kind of security?” inquired Cipher, quick to head straight for the most salient details.  “I assume they have more than a padlock to protect it.”

 

“We don’t know,” confessed Keeper.  “The rest of the prison uses everything from lasers to force fields to sanitization gas.  Two decades ago, a prison gang heard about the ward and tried to breach it, hoping something inside would help them escape.”

 

“Thieves, security experts – the underworld’s best,” Watcher Three added.  “None of them made it back. But they had the right idea.”

 

“Assemble your own gang from the prison,” Keeper outlined.  “Establish yourself as a fellow inmate, and succeed where the last group failed.  Our military forces are encouraging riots as part of the war effort.  It’s distracting the Republic and should conceal your operation.  But don’t be mistaken.  The prisoners are not grateful.  Keeper out.”

 

Cipher read between the lines on that one.  Use the prisoners, but don’t imagine them to be allies, no matter how good an asset any one might prove to be.  It was time to get to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Confession time: I have almost no experience with Star Wars EU material. I have watched the 6 canon movies, the Gennedy Tartakovsky animated Clone Wars shorts, about 60% of the Clone Wars series, and all, I think, of Rebels (so far), but I have read almost none of the many novels and comic books that comprise the EU - just "Tag and Bink Are Dead" for comics and, for novels, "The Courtship of Princess Leia" which someone loaned me and which I very nearly burned for multiple crimes against literature (the only redeeming thing in that book was the Dathomir Force witches). Most who know me find this astonishing, as I painted myself orange to cosplay a Togruta Jedi on a fairly regular basis for about two or three years running. But it's true: I haven't even read the much vaunted Thrawn trilogy.
> 
> 2\. One of the most complicated things I find about realistic world-building is: how do people swear? You can describe all kinds of fantastic scenery and wild aliens, but if you can't have them use a cussword realistically, you undermine your hard work. This was one of the awesome things with Farscape and Battlestar Galactica. If a character told someone to "stop frelling with my stuff" or referred to a "frakking toaster," you knew exactly what was meant; it was also realistic to the characters and situation-appropriate. In our western judeo-christian world, our most common oaths usually invoke God or Jesus - but these aren't going to apply to a galaxy far far away. Maybe the concept of a deity or pantheon does exist in some cultures in Star Wars, but, if I may refer you back to point #1 above, my own lack of experience with EU material places me in ignorance of such, so I have to do the best I can. I was pleased to find that Kaliyo said "You look like hell," (when finding male IA passed out in Chapter 2) because then at least I can use the word "hell" and have canon to back me up. In this case, it is less, actually, an issue of directly swearing at someone, and more a matter of those everyday little interjections or exclamations of surprise or irritation that most people use as a matter of course in conversation without much thought: "Oh my god," and "Holy Christ," and the like. 
> 
> 3\. I'm a biologist by education (you might have guessed, or might guess so from this chapter), so Cipher's questions are all things that I found myself wondering or pondering as I reflected on their relationship. The canon sources I am familiar with (again, see #1) don't really address the concept of cross-species mating; that there are not a bunch of half-togruta half twi-leks or half-devaronian half nautolans running around indicates that speciation between humanoid races is largely genetically conserved.
> 
> On the other hand, I recall there is a mission on Korriban where a guy at the Sith Academy laments the sullying of the races via "mixed blood," which suggests that some level of interbreeding may in fact be possible, at least among the so-called pure blood Sith.
> 
> 4\. I played through the Voss stuff last night, and am super glad I've finally started recording my cinematics. I cannot WAIT to write that material. :)


	16. The Traces of Invisible Strings

“We admit some memories of our former life are still rather vague,” Vector contemplated as he and Cipher crossed a grassy swath of the Belsavis landscape, “but we did not imagine our role in the Diplomatic Service would one day result in our taking part in a prison riot.”

 

Had it not been converted to a massive prison complex, Cipher would have considered Belsavis very beautiful.  For that matter, it was _still_ beautiful, but the isolated plumes of smoke rising in the distance and the shattered walls of the breached prison wards turned the populated areas into a chaotic mess that abraded her appreciation for orderliness.  Perpetually dodging roving gangs of rioting prisoners didn’t exactly lend itself to a romantic stroll across a charming landscape.

 

Somewhat like Hoth, Belsavis reminded her of Csilla, with its vast tracts of icy rocky wastes.  The Belsavis volcanic vents, however, created pockets of tropic-like warmth, with tall lush trees and air made humid by the melt of the surrounding snows.  An odd choice for a prison planet; really, the only thing it had going for it was its distance from the Republic Core.  If it were closer to either the Empire or the Republic, or even Hutt space, it could have been exploited as a pleasure planet, where a tourist could dispense their leisure time and money indulging in all the activities a mountain retreat and a tropical paradise could offer in the same day.  Cipher wondered how well the Republic scientists had learned to either suppress or cope with the sorts of tectonic upheavals that accompanied thermal fissures, lava vents, and volcanic activity; all the security systems in the world would be ineffective against an earthquake of sufficient severity.

 

They had just come from a rendezvous point with the four criminals Intelligence had earmarked for her team: Kanjon Slyke, an assassin and escape artist with a deep-seated loathing of authority; Chaney Barrow, an expert slicer and one of the Exchange Crime Syndicate’s top saboteurs prior to her imprisonment; Ohta, a demolitions expert and bounty hunter exiled from the Mandalorians, and Paarkos, a tracker who, as a Gand, could see through walls.  Cipher’s hand of cards was meager enough; the only thing she had in her favor to court their cooperation was an indistinct promise of escape.  It was a promise she didn’t plan on keeping.

 

“I imagine not,” she replied to Vector soberly.  “I'm sure there are many things you have been subjected to be part of that you never thought you would be.  I'm sorry.”

 

“For what, Agent?” Vector  asked curiously.

 

Cipher scanned the landscape a moment before answering.  “I can't help but feel that in the Diplomatic Service you probably would not have been called upon quite so frequently to fight.  I suspect your association with me has led you to quite a different life and quite a different use of your talents then you once may have expected.”  She paused, then continued, “To not put too fine a point on it, I'm sorry I’ve made you a killer.”

 

“You forget, Agent, that we were no longer part of the Diplomatic Service when we met you.  We had accepted our role as a defender of Oroboro.  It is a position not without danger.  Or fighting.  Or,” Vector added, “even killing.  To take up arms in defense of what we value – we are neither sorry nor ashamed.  Are you?”

 

“No,” Cipher answered.  “I – _we_ – do what is necessary.”

 

“Although as a result you consider yourself a killer?”

 

“Yes, of course,” Cipher said unhesitatingly.  “I won’t lie to myself about what I do.” 

 

Vector walked in silence for a moment, then wondered, “Do you ever feel remorse for those deaths?”

 

The question surprised Cipher, and she paused mid-step to turn to look at him.  “Vector,” she replied, “I colluded with a rogue member of the Dark Council to be directly responsible for the deaths of a hundred thousand innocent Imperial citizens.  Remorse doesn't even begin to cover it.” 

 

Her gaze flicked over the surrounding land, the uneven fields kept comfortingly free of significant ground cover, and, satisfied that no danger presented itself, she added,  “It’s a reason why when I broke the programming, I didn't tell Watcher X to free me from all control.  After Jadus, I spent a long time with the Minders at Intelligence Headquarters, and there is a lot of it I don’t remember.  Of course that must have been when they installed the keyword, and I suspect that while they were tinkering around in there, they made some repairs that let me cope with the idea of what I’ve done.  Soften to the guilt, so to speak.”  She shrugged one shoulder in a show of nonchalance, but her voice lowered, taking on a faraway tone as uncertain colors trickled through her aura.

 

“I can’t really feel it, but I know it’s still there.  It’s like when you look directly at a faint star, and the more you focus on it, the more it fades from view.  I know I heard the screams, but when I try to remember, it just slides away.”  She blinked, and looked again at Vector, her voice regaining its clarity.  “I didn't want to interfere too severely with what they might have put there… lest I find the only alternative would be to lose my mind completely.”

 

“We’re not sure most others would have been so thoughtful or restrained in their decision,” Vector said gently.

 

“Maybe, maybe not,” she replied neutrally.  “It was just that I realized I could see possible futures where some mental alterations might be necessary.  Or desired.”

 

Detecting a peculiar swirl of self-consciousness in her aura, Vector couldn’t forbear asking, “Desired?  In what way?”

 

“Oh…you know.”  Briefly, Paha looked vainly for a way to deflect the question as she turned to continue their journey.  She tossed the answer back over her shoulder.  “Becoming a Joiner, maybe.”

 

Vector blinked several times after her as she walked away, then, recalling himself, jogged to catch her up and fall into step beside her.  Perhaps as no one else in the galaxy did, he had an acute understanding of her solitary place in the universe, her ties severed by race, by culture, by tradition, by responsibility, and by death, and he again was conscious of all he had in his bond to the Killiks – the sense of belonging, of family, of acceptance, and of value - _personal_ value, strange as that may seem for a hive collective.  Why should she not want those things for herself?  A person could no more exist in this complete void than they could in the vacuum of space.  And for her to consider the Killiks as a potential family!  He was unable to pursue all the possible meanings of that idea.

 

And yet, he said, “We… would not want that for you.”

 

“You wouldn’t?” she asked, surprised.  Killiks strengthened their nests using Joiners, taking the knowledge of individual experience into the collective living databank of the hive mind.  Those who had neither skill nor knowledge to offer were of no value.  Were even the Killiks to discard her as something unwanted?

 

There was a sort of faint disappointment in her air, some slight sense of dejection, or perhaps rejection, and Vector clarified his response. “The Joining… it changes you.  Fundamentally.  And we don’t want you to change.”

 

“Change is a part of life.  Nothing is permanent,” Paha answered.

 

Vector thought of his dead emotions for Anora, realizing how they had dulled and diminished over time, even before his Joining.  He had once expected to live out his days on Alderaan, and had never imagined being part of this galaxy-spanning adventure, and yet, against all expectation, he stood now on a hidden planet, orchestrating a prison break alongside a woman who made the most vibrant sparks of happiness erupt from his heart at the sound of her song.  People did change.  Life was a capricious thing.

 

“We understand,” he assured her.  "What we mean is – we like you just as you are now," he smiled at the blush that tinted her cheeks below her widened eyes.  "Very much, in fact.”

 

\- - - -

 

Getting into Megasecurity Ward 23 was going to require equipment, and Cipher strongly doubted that they could get what they needed purely for the asking.  That meant first ransacking a few laboratories for needed gear.  Cipher and Vector cleared the path, then admitted the four criminals, who were eager to grab anything they could.

 

“Knock yourselves out,” Cipher said in a clipped Republic accent as her team scattered gleefully.  “If you think it will be useful, take it.  So long as we get the equipment on Slyke’s list.”

 

Their selfish raptures over their new-found treasures were interrupted a moment later by a cold, mechanical voice, intoning, “SCORPIO sanctions activated."  Cipher had heard it once before, as she broke open the cells that held her four assets, but it was new to the others, and it continued, “I appreciate all of you gathering in one place.  Your deaths will be artfully intertwined.”

 

“You must have tripped an alarm,” gasped Chaney.  “I didn’t do anything!”

 

“A security system.  Eyes open and weapons at the ready,” Cipher said with assured composure.  Whatever it was, it would need to be dealt with at some point.  If that point could be now, so much the better.  She raised her voice to the room, addressing the operator on the other end of the security intercom.  “This is the second time we’ve met.  You still haven’t introduced yourself.”

 

“That is correct,” affirmed the voice, without expanding on the topic.  “These laboratories were used for research in alien aggression.  I have full access to the research and chemicals used.”  Cipher whipped her head around to see a noxious gas seeping through a handful of vents, and Chaney was already doubling over with coughs.  “The SLV-88 aerosol was formulated to control the minds and heighten the aggressive instincts of anyone exposed.  Enjoy this experience for the brief time that it lasts.”

 

Ohta, naturally temperamental, didn’t really need any aggression-inducing gas; he was always eager to shoot first and think things over later.  It was no surprise that the first blaster rounds came from his gun as Slyke and Paarkos dove for cover.  Cipher, completely unaffected, sent a mental expression of gratitude to the memory of Watcher X, and glanced about the room, certain there was a way to block or shut off the gas if only she could find it, when her alert eye met Vector’s, bright with a torment she had never seen in him before.  Vector had no such defense.

 

“The Night Herald,” he cried in anguished tones, “It screams in our mind!”

 

He was visibly struggling, as though with some unseen foe, fighting the urge to reach for his electrostaff to raise it against her.  Swiftly, she reached for his arm, recalling the sparring lesson he had once given her, and threw him bodily to the floor, thanking her own sense of prudence that she had had the foresight to give herself a practical lesson in fighting him.  She had never dreamed she would have to do so for real.  His electrostaff flung from his loose grip and rolled away across the floor, and before she stood, she rapidly hissed in his ear, “Stay down!  Stay down and fight it!”

 

That was all she had time for before she had to do something to keep the remainder of her team from tearing each other apart.  Shooting to wound, not kill, Cipher pinned them down long enough to scurry across the open space of the lab to the vaporizers pumping the toxic gas into the air.  There were computer consoles, but she feared the damage that would be done while she floundered through an unfamiliar system.  First was to control the threat of the addition of fresh poison - destroy the vaporizers - then find a way to vent the lab.  She turned her attention to a central computer console where she rapidly flicked through the control programming tied to the ventilation system.

 

“You’re immune to mind-control technologies,” the disembodied voice said with an interested and clinical detachment as fresh air swept through the lab.  “Yet those defenses should be unavailable to the wider galaxy.  Interesting.  We will continue this discussion later.”

 

“Yeah?” muttered Cipher, turning away from the console.  “You bet we will.  I have a few choice words I’d like to say to you, too.”

 

The patterns of expression reminded her a little of Watcher X – his keen intellect, his compulsion to observe and analyze all around him, his interest in knowing and assessing his world and all who had brushed up against it – but she had an odd notion that their unseen foe was less human and more computer.  A droid, perhaps, although one of extraordinary advancement.  Vector met her halfway across the lab, tight lines etched into his face.

 

“A formal apology should include a gift, we know,” he offered quietly, “but for now… we’re sorry about that.”

 

“It’s not your fault,” she assured him, her eyes signaling him to defer any further discussion to another time as Slyke approached, looking somewhat worse for wear.

 

“Think we’re all in one piece,” he drawled.  “That’s a nasty security system.”

 

“And we’re not even in the Megasecurity Ward yet,” Chaney added.

 

“Any of you have any idea what just attacked us?” Cipher asked, folding her arms and wasting no time.

 

“Not a clue, boss,” answered Slyke.  “My brother didn’t live to tell.”

 

Paarkas, Chaney, and Ohta had no better idea, and Cipher pulled their attention back to their main goal of gathering the needed equipment.  Chaney’s slicing indicated the locations of their last remaining pieces – a carbonite trap from the armory, a baradium battery from the hazardous waste containment station, and anti-radiation serum from the water filtration system. Those were her tasks. Cipher sent the criminal quartet on to their next safe meeting point while she and Vector went in search of their final supplies.

 

\- - - -

 

“It’s getting late,” Vector observed, eyeing the track of the sun across the sky.  They had obtained the three required articles, but there was a long distance to travel to where their convict colleagues awaited them.  Too long a distance, and Cipher didn’t care much for the idea of either journeying at night through unfamiliar territory, or camping in the open, on the unprotected plains dotted with some of the worst and most bloodthirsty of the galaxy’s sinners.

 

“Let’s get back to the ship,” she agreed.   After a moment, he took his dark gaze away from the cloud-dotted sky to find her regarding him thoughtfully, and he blinked, unaccountably uncomfortable under the scrutiny.  He had been wrestling with an irrational feeling of guilt that had been gnawing at him since being overcome in the laboratory, and she guessed it as accurately as if she herself were able to read his aura with Killik eyes.

 

“I meant what I said,” she broke the short silence with a quiet assertion.  “It wasn’t your fault.  I would have succumbed just the same, had it not been for what Intelligence and Watcher X have done.  I suppose I could say I should be grateful for it, now.”

 

“That is one way to look at it,” Vector nodded musingly, then he sighed.  “Still.  We did not think we were… that weak.”

 

“I’m sure some of the best scientists of the Republic worked on that,” Paha reasoned.  “You couldn’t have resisted it any more than I could have resisted what the Minders did to me.  And, I should point out, you resisted far better than Ohta, or Slyke.  You fought it when I reminded you to.  And after all, I didn’t have to shoot you.”  She prodded him playfully with her elbow, trying to nudge him out of his doldrums.

 

Vector’s mouth twisted into a wryly amused frown.  “We admit, that is some consolation.  But…” his face grew grave again, and he folded his arms, unconsciously protective of his sense of abashed self-reproach.  “We promised to fight alongside you.  Not against you.  You said you wanted our protection, and we told you we could be relied on to provide it.  We never expected that you might require protection _from_ us.  It is…” he trailed off, sinking his chin on his chest as he searched his vocabulary for the correct word to express the depths of mortification he felt.

 

“More humiliating than you thought you could ever feel something to be?” Paha offered quietly.  “I know a little bit about that.  Watching yourself take actions you know aren’t your own, things you’d never do, and knowing there’s nothing you can do except sit back and watch it happen because you’re just too much of a failure to stop it?  Yes, by the stars, I should say I know.”

 

She reached out and rested her hand on his arm.  “And that’s why I know I’m telling you the truth when I tell you _it_ _isn’t your fault_.  You have done nothing that requires my forgiveness, but if the words matter, I forgive you.  As I recall you once had occasion to say to me: we’re still here.  We are not destroyed.”  She stretched herself a little to kiss him lightly on the cheek.  He raised his head a little then, feeling a calming sense of hope from her words, and turned his face to hers to receive the comfort of her kiss directly to his lips from hers.  He sighed again, a breath of refreshment and strength instead of the sorry, heavy sound he had made earlier, and leaned his forehead against hers for a moment, savoring the sense of her scent and the feeling of her skin in contact with his. 

 

“Thank you,” he said simply.

 

“Anytime,” she smiled back at him.  She had set aside her normal field caution during their conversation – definitely a hazard, but one she was comfortable temporarily risking, and her eyes quickly resumed their automatic scanning of the surrounding land as she raised her head from his.  “Now,” she added in somewhat more business-like tones, and gesturing to a nearby elevated rock outcropping that rose above the encircling irregular plains, “We could use a better view of the lay of the land.  Give me a boost?”

 

Promptly, Vector obligingly braced his stance and knit his fingers together to catch her foot and hoist her aloft, where, crouching among the cover of sheltering shrubs, she intently examined the tropical grasslands for enemies and rioters.  Satisfied there was no immediate danger, she rose to standing, and Vector craned his head to observe her.

 

The afternoon was just on the verge of tipping into a purple evening of ruddy orange hues, suspended in an ethereal moment when the cerulean sky was underscored with stretching shadows cast by the lengthening golden light of the sun, cutting through gaps in the clouds spat up sporadically from the surrounding snow-shrouded mountains.  Paha was caught in its glow, her azure skin blending almost seamlessly with the sky above, delineated only by the jointly brilliant gleams of her aura and the sunlight that limned her in a gilt corona.  Vector’s breath caught in his throat at the sight as he stared, trying to fix it in his mind forever, and he was fired with the wildest craving to seize her in his arms, to cave to the temptation to take her then and there, in the gathering twilight of these golden grasslands, be damned to the prisons and the conspirators and the mission.  It was not until much later, recalling the vision, that it dawned on him that it hadn’t even occurred to him to notice that there was no hint of Anora’s memory or his conscience cluttering up the raw desire – a positive enough sign if ever he’d had one.  He reached up to catch her as she jumped down, cherishing the weight of her landing in his arms as much as he cherished the weight of her reliance on him.

 

“What?” she asked, curious and intrigued at the look on his face.

 

He waved a hand.  “Nothing at all,” he lied, hoping it sounded casual enough.  “Is our path clear?”

 

“Almost perfectly,” she answered, and he thought she was more correct than she knew.

 

\- - - -

 

Having attended to the immediate matters on board the _Phantom_ that required her attention, Paha was heading for a shower and a meal when she spied Vector through the open door of the medical bay.  She had recommended he consult Doctor Lokin to ensure there were no lasting effects of the SLV-88 gas, and was sure that if Lokin could recover traces of it from their clothing, he would be delighted to have a new biochemical compound to pore over.  Vector had evidently taken her advice, and, based on the sound of pleasant conversation issuing from the medical bay, Lokin had found no cause for concern.

 

“Agent,” called Vector, catching her attention and beckoning her into the room with a motion of his head.  “You can bear witness.  Doctor Lokin has agreed to hike Kaas Falls with us, if we visit the Kaas City opera.”

 

“Master Vector’s musical tastes are, frankly, unsophisticated,” opined Lokin.

 

Paha had her own opinion about that.  To accuse a man who could hear, quite literally, the music of the spheres of having an unsophisticated ear struck her as particularly ludicrous, even more so than the thought of Lokin being away from any laboratory long enough for even a moderate park stroll.  And that even supposed that he was fit enough something more strenuous.  Well, he could always do the hike as a rakghoul, if he needed the extra boost of stamina.

 

“I’m only trying to help,” Lokin said quickly in response to Cipher’s skeptically raised eyebrows.

 

“Then we have a deal?” Vector nodded with a smile.

 

“If we do or not can wait,” Lokin answered evasively, his demeanor sobering.  “I’m glad you are here, Cipher, there’s something the three of us must discuss.”

 

“I think you’ve got our attention,” Cipher answered, interested, but not alarmed, at Lokin’s seriousness.

 

“As you are both aware, I’ve been investigating the individuals who broke into my safe house, and it’s brought me to an off-the-books division of the Imperial Science Bureau called Project Protean.”

 

“The people who want you dead are part of the Imperial Science Bureau?” Cipher repeated.  “Dare I ask why?”

 

“Not officially; it’s a very secret group,” Lokin emphasized, ignoring her second question.  “Their research is focused on human-alien genetic splicing.  I’ve studied their files, along with your own physiology, Master Vector, and I’ve come to a conclusion: Project Protean arranged your meeting with the Killiks so they could study the Joining.”

 

Cipher controlled her surprise enough to indicate it only by blinking, and she glanced quickly at Vector’s face, locked in a stunned and stonily impassive expression.

 

“Why would they do that?” she demanded.  “And why Vector?”

 

“Thanks to the Killiks,” Lokin explained, “he’s stronger, more capable – an ideal soldier or infiltrator.”

 

Vector recovered sufficiently to speak.  “A science experiment,” he spat, making no effort to disguise the bitterness in his voice.

 

“For what it’s worth,” Lokin continued, not unkindly, “I don’t believe it was personal.  They wanted a test subject, and you were on Alderaan already.”

 

“Vector?” Paha asked directly.  “What do you think of all this?”

 

It was a little soon to ask for his full thoughts on the matter, he hadn’t yet worked through a fraction of the emotions and ideas that were pushing themselves on him.  He made more of an effort to battle against the anger as he answered, “We think we are who we are.  But,” he added harshly, feeling himself losing his battle with his outrage, “we prefer not to be someone else’s puppet.”

 

“Understandable,” acknowledged Lokin.  “No one would.”

 

“To what extent were they involved in this?” Cipher inquired.  “And what information do they have?”

 

“They’ll have files on the Killiks.  Ways to hurt Joiners, or heal them,” Lokin replied.  “I don’t know the details of the case, however.  They may have been instrumental in altering Vector, or they may simply have observed him.  Either way, I consider it our obligation to find Project Protean and end them, for Vector’s sake as well as mine.”

 

The damage to Vector had already been done, but, Cipher reflected, he had more than once indicated he did not wish it changed.  He didn't view it as damage. But was that the hive mind talking, or him?  The Killiks would certainly have reason enough for ensuring their pheromone cocktails kept Joiners from expressing dissatisfaction or regret about Joining, no matter how it had happened.  And he had specifically stated he did not want her to Join, acknowledging the changes it would incur.  But for all that, he seemed to have genuinely embraced his current role, and the thought of Vector becoming purely human brought unsettling questions – if he were reverted to his human state, would he still think of her, and look at her, the same way? Or would he become like any other human, with a human's disdain for the inferior - for the _creepy_ \- alien races? 

 

There was the consideration that more damage could, in fact, be done, to others as well as to Vector.  Ways to hurt Joiners, Lokin had said, and techniques to heal them.  Perhaps hurt them deliberately in order to test out those healing techniques.  And all of it done without the knowledge, consent, or willingness of the participants of these little experiments.  That certainly felt familiar.

 

“You’ve pulled a lot of data on these people,” Cipher ordered.  “Finish the job.”

 

“It will be my pleasure,” Lokin replied.

 

“If you’ll excuse us,” Vector said abruptly, taking a step backwards toward the door, “we’d like to commune with the hive.”

 

Paha knew this to be a lie.  Out here, on the Outer Rim that spun through space far from Alderaan and the Oroboro Colony, he could not hear the Kind, not well enough to commune with them.  But twice in one day, Vector had been forcibly confronted with the discovery that he was not as in control of his life as he had imagined himself to be.  It was terrible, shattering knowledge, and there was nothing she could do to soften it, nor would she remove it, even if she could.  She believed it was always better to know.  Knowledge, more than any other sentient power, was what shaped the universe.  What good was even the Force in the face of ignorance of its use?  For all that, she felt an aching pang of compassion within her chest, and her heart followed his footsteps down the corridor until she could no longer hear them. 

 

“You won’t want my advice,” said Lokin, with somewhat less detachment than he generally showed, “but I’ll give it anyway.  Vector knows who he is.  Give him time to be sure of it.”

 

Give him time, she repeated to herself some while later, staring again at the timepiece on the bridge console.  How long?  She knew she should go to bed; she would need the rest for the demands of tomorrow, but she felt sleep would be a long time in coming.  So she sat up late in a brown study, watching numbers flickering across the console panels and lights blinking on information displays, seeing only partial views of the stars surrounding the Belsavis orbital station at which the _Phantom_ was docked.

 

She recognized the cadence of approaching footsteps, but didn’t move, allowing Vector to take a seat at the adjoining console before she started with the obvious first question.

 

“How are you doing?”

 

His silence continued a few more moments, and at length he said, “We think we owe you an apology.  We didn’t intend to be petulant.  It wasn’t fair of us.”

 

“You needed space.  You needed time.  Neither of those are unreasonable requests,” she answered mildly.

 

“But we could have asked for it more politely,” he replied.  “We think you handled your own discoveries of your puppet strings far more gracefully than we did ours.  And yours were the more tightly tied.”

 

“I wouldn’t necessarily agree with that,” she returned.  “The techniques were different, yes, but the behavior of those behind the scenes was much the same.”

 

“And yet you still work for Imperial Intelligence.  You have forgiven them,” Vector pointed out.  “We don't think of forgiveness.  We think primarily of vengeance.  Of destruction.  Of ensuring Project Protean can never do this to another.  Of ruining their files on us, so they may no longer benefit from our ignorance.  We... aren’t used to such thoughts.”

 

“I suppose I have,” Paha mused.  “Forgiven them, I mean, although I never thought of it in such terms.  It was just part of the job, and regardless of how I felt about it, I would still need to work with Intelligence, so there was no sense in holding grudges and burning bridges.  It wasn’t a forgiving matter.  It just was… doing what was required of me.”

 

He regarded her for several minutes, then observed, “We begin to see why you have trouble with the idea of forgiveness.”

 

“Indeed?” she answered with a hesitant smile.  “Well, then, go ahead, psychoanalyze me.”

 

“You very rarely see the behavior of others as a personal offense.  No one offends you, therefore you never have anything to forgive.  But,” he added, putting a hand to his chin, “we see too that you hold yourself to a different standard, and you never forgive yourself, and so expect no one else to forgive you, either.”

 

“And do you?  Forgive yourself?” Paha asked.  “For the grievous error of not being able to counter things that are both beyond your knowledge and your control?”

 

“We see your point,” Vector conceded graciously, putting his head to one side.  “And we agree we have wallowed in self-pity enough.  As we said, you handled this more gracefully than we did.  So you have no objection to Lokin’s planned retaliation against Project Protean?  We may couch it in many unassuming or righteous terms, but those are just facades for the unlovely truth: It _is_ revenge.”

 

“None whatsoever,” Paha asserted.  “Vector, I knew what I was getting into when I joined Intelligence.  You were never part of Project Protean; _you_ never signed on to being exploited in such a way.”

 

“You think it makes a difference?”

 

“Yes.  I might not have liked what Intelligence did, but I always had understood that a tactic of that sort was a possibility.  We didn’t even know Project Protean existed until Doctor Lokin had uncovered their forcible recruitment of you.”  She leaned forward, placing her slender blue fingers across his tan-brown hand.  “You might think it a minute detail, but aren’t those the most important?  And when it affects you so profoundly, no detail is minute.  So I think you have every right to contact Protean and…”  She made a gesture of continuation, and he filled in the blank.

 

“Acquaint them of our displeasure?”

 

“Something like that,” she said, giving him a lopsided smile.  She was intrigued and comforted to find that his concerns focused on the morals of his future course of action, and not on the immutable past, asking questions that had no answers.  Wherever Vector had been taken during his soul-searching since Lokin’s information bombshell, he seemed to have no doubts now about his nature or his place in the hive.  Or, for that matter, his place on this ship, or at her side, to Paha’s relief.  It seemed Doctor Lokin had been right.

 

“We thank you for the clarity of your view,” he replied solemnly.  “We will meditate on your perspective in conjunction with our own.  The similarities in our songs. And the differences.”

 

He rose from the chair, then bent at the waist to bestow a soft kiss on her forehead.  She replied only with a gentle smile, and didn’t push for more, watching him go as he left the bridge, then headed to her own quarters.  Reassurance, she decided, could do pretty decent service as a lullaby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Sorry for some writing delays of late; I usually do a lot of my writing on Saturday mornings, but last week I was away on a long trip for a family BBQ, and yesterday I was off judging a costume contest for a local comic convention. I've made a little bit of progress by dictaphoning passages into my smartphone during my long work commute, but that still requires a lot of revisions and editing. These disjointed writing times are tough for me because I end up losing my narrative train of thought, and I think it reflects in the writing.
> 
> 2\. I put in some snippits of options of the proposal scene and remnants of the Anora's message scene in their conversation here because I thought they were important, but didn't fit in in those conversations.


	17. Prisoners and Penalties

Cipher shivered as the frozen carbonite melted from her limbs, sublimating without a telltale trace left behind. It had been the secret to getting through the security sensors that permitted the passage of droids only into Megasecurity Ward 23. But while the trick fooled the basic monitors, the cold, detached voice of Scorpio indicated she – or it – was not so easily taken in. Scorpio observed her every move, and commented on most, sounding now more intrigued and inquisitive the further Cipher penetrated into the secret spots of the Belsavis prison complex. If Scorpio were indeed an artificial intelligence, she delighted in matching wits, and had no use for anything she couldn't consider a worthy adversary. As Cipher prepared the baradium battery to leach the radiation necessary to weaken the heavy bulkhead door leading deeper into Ward 23, she decided Scorpio would find her worthy soon enough.

 

Cipher holoed her slicer. “Force field up ahead, Chaney.”

 

“It's hooked into the security program. Now all that work with the droids pays off,” Chaney responded, eager to see the result of the security override she had written, laboriously manually installed in individual droids by Cipher. When activated, the droids would wreak havoc in the prison wards. Her hands hovering over the controls, Chaney added, “I'm going to trigger every alarm in Belsavis, and the Scorpio system's going to go crazy. I hope.”

 

Kanjon Slyke chose this unfortunate moment to level a blaster at Chaney's head, and she jerked her hands away from the computer console with a small squeak of dismay.

 

“Seems to me now's a very good time to renegotiate our deal,” he drawled. “Nothing personal, Chaney, but you make a good bargaining chip. I don't want you dead, but Ohta and I are just looking out for our interests. You,” Kanjon caught Cipher's gaze over the holo, “I want you to authorize a credit transfer. Pay us enough, and you can finish your little break-in.”

 

“Say the word,” came Ohta's voice from beyond the image of the holo, “and the slicer dies.”

 

Cipher returned Slyke's stare coldly, ignoring Ohta's redundant threat. “Fine,” she snapped, tapping a few buttons on her holo. Her lips curled in a moue of distaste and annoyance, she replied, “There. That will take care of you, or at least be enough to buy you for a little longer. But keep in mind that you can't purchase your way off of Belsavis. I am still your best chance, so I suggest you let me finish this.”

 

“That will do nicely,” Kanjon drawled. “Can't blame me for making sure I'm taken care of. Chaney?”

 

The thin young woman stretched out shaking hands to the controls again. “Thank you,” she mumbled into the holo, trying to steady herself before continuing. “Triggering the alarms now.”

 

A far-off klaxon wailed insistently, and Cipher felt a sort of vindictive glee at Scorpio's voice joining it, rising in frustration. “I can hear a thousand electronic screams!” snarled Scorpio, “What have you done?”

 

“And _that_ should take care of _you_ ,” Cipher said to the air above her head, watching the force fields flicker as they failed, sliced open with Chaney's impeccable skill.

 

“We are surprised you paid off Slyke,” Vector observed as they continued down the corridor, lit by eerie pale blue lights.

 

“I don't have any intention of letting Kanjon walk off with my money – or of letting him walk off at all,” Cipher replied. “So I don't begrudge him a useless temporary loan if it secured Chaney's life long enough to get us through here. These are some of the most vicious and self-interested criminals in the galaxy. They deserve to be in prison – any prison – even a Republic one. And considering what the Republic is going through with all those droids up there right now, I figure these will just be four more rioters the Republic won't have to bother catching.”

 

“All of them?” Vector said, a little taken aback at her heartlessness, astringent and severe, and he considered that he had become so used to seeing her compassionate warmth that his view of the ruthless insensitivity she required to do her job had diminished considerably. It was an austere reminder of her mission and the tactics he knew were necessary for her to employ, but that knowledge didn't make it particularly easier to contemplate.

 

“Ohta and Slyke at the least. Really, based on this little stunt of theirs, I expect they will turn on me again before I have the chance to take them down first,” Cipher reasoned. She was not at all comfortable with the idea of having to rely on them in any capacity, and Slyke's extortion emphasized the appropriateness of that caution. “They are too dangerous, too chaotic. Chaney and Paarkos... they are the most sensible and controllable of the lot. They could be useful to the Empire, if given the proper motivation. I would rather recruit them, but... who knows?” She shrugged, tossing her hand as if to encompass the countless mercurial vacillations of the future.

 

The corridor opened into a vast chamber, the remnants of an ancient Rakata great hall, filled with machinery supporting several large tanks, glowing faintly blue in the dark and in which floated the suspended bodies of several individuals. In contrast, on the far side of the space, a solitary droid-like figure hung within an open chamber, surrounded in electric currents and ominous red light. The blue were Kolto tanks, Cipher recognized, and each one hooked into a complex life support and computer system – but the red she did not know.

 

Cipher craned her head to take in the remarkable sight. “How long could they have been here? And... alive? All this time?”

 

“There _are_ people alive here,” Vector confirmed, “but their auras are dark.”

 

The computer system sensed their approach, or heard her question, and holo terminals attached to each tank flared suddenly to brightness, displaying the tank occupant as they had been – or imagined themselves to be – in their fullness of their life, although at nearly four meters in height.

 

“I imagine things sometimes,” reflected the first tank resident, a male who appeared to be human. “Faces, lights... the sounds of blasters. But you're real. It's been a long time since I met a stranger.

 

“Who are you?” asked Cipher. “What's your name?”

 

“I... I've had so many,” the image replied, looking genuinely confused. His head turned towards the other end of the room, where the electrified chamber had disgorged its occupant: the security system known as Scorpio had returned to her native body, and she, emerging from the ominous red glow, advanced on them, her eyes glowing darkly.

 

“Your distraction was clever,” Scorpio greeted them coldly, “but I have disconnected myself from the network. The alarms no longer scream to me. You and I are alone now. And I will atomize you.”

 

Cipher could not fight a formless, disembodied security system. But a droid? A consciousness in a physical body? She excelled at that. It was what she did best. Scorpio was clearly no mere rudimentary bit of programming, but a highly advanced assassin, lethal and skilled. Cipher appreciated it, and made sure Scorpio knew it, giving her the courtesy of her keenest talents.

 

“She would have killed you,” observed the hologram of the first tank resident, regarding the crumpled body of the droid sprawled on the floor. “Which means you aren’t one of her masters. Who do you serve? And why are you here?”

 

“I came looking for answers,” Cipher replied directly. “Someone has been manipulating the galaxy, and the trail led here.”

 

“I know the enemies you seek,” replied the hologram. “Belsavis prison is their vault. A place they hide their treasures for safe-keeping.”

 

“Microdroids,” explained one of the other holograms.

 

“Genetic maps,” added another.

 

“The Scorpio artificial intelligence,” from a third.

 

“Advancements in technology they’ve denied the wider galaxy,” the first reclaimed the narrative. “We belong to them, too. A menagerie of men and women they respected too much to kill. Philosophers, and scientists. People with ideas the galaxy wasn’t ready to accept, preserved for future generations. Placed here because of what we knew. I was born into the conspiracy eight centuries ago, when our order was young. We assembled to save civilization after the Jedi and Sith nearly destroyed it.”

 

“Go on,” nodded Cipher, hanging on every word of the explanation she had so eagerly hunted.

 

“It was the aftermath of the Great Hyperspace War, and the Republic had triumphed; the Empire had fled, and the galaxy was in ruins. We gathered to ask: why? Why hadn’t anyone stopped the conflict? Why did billions have to die? Both the Sith and the Jedi were responsible, so we resolved to control their actions from the shadows. To keep Republic and Empire separate. To be their secret masters as the Star Cabal. We let the Jedi and Sith maintain their facades of religion and hereditary might, but that facade runs on a world of information that we control. The galaxy belongs to the Star Cabal, and almost nobody realizes the truth.”

 

“I realize it,” Cipher declared. “But whatever your intentions were at the outset, they certainly are not the same now. The Republic and Empire know of each other, and are at war again.”

 

“We had a role. But we knew not to overplay our hand – in my time, at least,” confessed the first. “I have seen our successors grow cold and hungry for power. Each generation comes to us for wisdom, then returns us to the dark, telling us nothing. I do not know what the Star Cabal has become in our absence. Only that it is corrupt.

 

“I will help you. Use the Scorpio droid’s databanks. I saw her creation, and I know her restraining codes. I can help you repair her, and she may lead you further.”

 

Some time later, Vector stood back and gave the Scorpio artificial intelligence a long and appraising look. The avatars of the original Star Cabal members – or their property – had returned to their rest, and Cipher had finished reprogramming Scorpio with the codes that would prevent her from carrying out her lethal purpose against any of Cipher’s team. Scorpio was decidedly displeased about it, and Cipher patiently waited for her to get the threats out of her system before insisting on access and uploading of her databanks to Imperial Intelligence.

 

“An ancient and ever-evolving assassin droid,” Vector commented. “After she gives up her information to Intelligence, what do you intend to do with her?”

 

Cipher, frowning thoughtfully, regarded the droid for a few moments before answering. It was a good question. Once outside the sophisticated equipment of this chamber, reprogramming Scorpio would be a difficult prospect, and neither would it be feasible to bring her back here every time it was necessary to update the tally of individuals on her do-not-kill list. As the primary assignee of control, Cipher was in the best position to ensure Scorpio remained on her leash, and it was a leash that would need constant supervision. The droid was clearly analyzing her situation and assessing her options. Her primary mode of operation was constant learning, and she openly vowed to break or subvert the hold Cipher had over her. The only logical conclusion was that Scorpio would have to be kept on board the _Phantom_ , under Cipher's direct supervision, just like Hunter had once ensured for Ensign Temple. Control, or be controlled. It seemed every entity in the universe was subject to that directive. There was no escaping it.

 

“A girlfriend for Toovee?” Cipher offered at last with a shrug.

 

Vector made a noise of amusement, his chuckle a low rumble in his chest. “Every once in a while, we consider that you are, in fact, rather wicked.”

 

“Only once in a while?” replied Cipher. “I’ll have to work harder, then.”

 

More seriously, he advised, “We know it’s an understatement, but be wary, Cipher.”

 

“I will,” she assured him. “I most certainly will.”

 

\- - - -

 

With Scorpio and the Star Cabal’s secrets secured, it was now only a matter of final clean-up. Since Slyke had already taken the initiative to renegotiate their deal, Cipher had little compunction or hesitation about renegotiating it a second time to tip it back in her favor. In a spirit of good sportsmanship, she gave them a single opportunity to walk away, to take their chances at freedom on each their own merit – but she knew already it would be an empty gesture where Slyke and Ohta were concerned. Unsurprisingly, neither of them preferred being on the losing side of any bargain; they opted instead to escalate the discussion, feeling that blasters spoke more eloquently than their own vocabularies did.

 

“It’s a shame,” Cipher commented, sounding genuine about it as she looked over the bodies of Chaney and Paarkos, reluctant fighters who nonetheless cast in their lots with Slyke and Ohta. “I would have rather it gone differently. But it couldn’t have been helped.” She saw a grave look on Vector’s face, and imagined it held elements of disapproval. “I’m sorry, Vector. They could identify us too easily, and more than ever it is imperative our tracks be well-covered.”

 

“Hunter will still know we’ve been here,” Vector pointed out.

 

“I know. But at least these are four he can’t interrogate. Four that will keep our secrets.” Cipher gave a small sigh. “My hands are dirty, Vector. They always have been, and always will be. I can’t change that. It's necessary.”

 

“We understand. We do, after all, recall their willingness to turn on you,” he replied. He was quiet a moment before he added, “We think… had they been successful, had they injured you… our vengeance would have been terrible.”

 

He looked down at his gloved hands. “We think our hands may be dirty, too. Or if they are not yet, they will be, when we finish with Project Protean. When did our thoughts begin to run so to violence?”

 

Cipher quietly slid her hand into his, closing her fingers around it, and answered, “When you discovered you have things you want to protect.”

 

They continued on, returning to the _Phantom_ via the orbital station, and as they crossed into the airlock passage, they were met by a young man in Alderaanian garb: Pashon, a surviving son of House Cortess, openly declaring vengeance for the ruin of his family. Cipher barely restrained herself from rolling her eyes, and quietly took a small step aside to let Vector talk some sense into him.

 

Pashon didn't take it well. “You are a Joiner, and an _abomination_ ,” he sneered in response to Vector's assuaging comments.

 

 _Neither human, nor a diplomat_ , Cipher recalled to herself, manifesting the only external sign of her outrage in a single exhalation. There it was again, that brutal ignorance. Pashon would do well to check a mirror if he wanted to look an abomination in the eye, peeking out from his treasured cocoon of privilege and bigotry. Or maybe it was just that she didn't particularly like insufferably arrogant brats insulting her boyfriend. Either way, when Pashon drew his sword, she couldn't honestly say she was sorry to have the opportunity to teach him a badly-needed lesson regarding civil forms of expression.  It was quickly obvious that he needed a lesson in fighting skills, too. Neither he nor his guards acquitted themselves well in the fight, and her disdainful opinion of the young hothead couldn’t get much lower.

 

“Unbelievable,” Cipher said wryly. “If this is what comes of being merciful, I should take a lesson from this and be more vigilant about hunting down the connections of my targets.”

 

She knelt over the young man’s groaning form and picked up his head by a fistful of hair, looking into the bleary eye a moment before dropping him back on the deck with a thud. Vector recognized her sarcasm, and the irritation that shot sharply through her aura. It was a reassuring sight: the warmth of her annoyance meant that she wasn’t seriously entertaining the idea. He knew by now that she was always at her coldest when she was most serious about death meted out by her own hand.

 

“It was nice of him to mention that a 'friend' told him how to find me,” Cipher continued, rising and making a show of dusting off her hands. “If this whelp had tracked us down on his own, I think the only possible course of action left open to me would to resign my post and throw myself to my death from the highest tower of Imperial Intelligence.”

 

“Hunter,” Vector frowned, echoing her thought exactly, and she nodded as a station sentry came running up, breathless and apologetic, leading a phalanx guards who hauled the half-senseless Pashon and his two thugs to their feet.

 

“What would you like us to do with him?” the sentry asked.

 

The kid was an idiot, but didn’t deserve to be shot in cold blood. On the other hand, it wouldn’t do for him to be at liberty to make a repeat performance of his little stunt.

 

“Medical attention for his lackeys; they were just following orders. As for him? Arrest him, and put him on trial,” Cipher ordered. “After that, I see nothing wrong with returning him to the welcoming bosom of his family on Alderaan.  I am sure they will be overjoyed when he _joins_ them.”

 

The sentry thought nothing of her words, but Pashon stirred at that, his head jerking up, casting a faint look of horror over his shoulder as the guards marched him away. “Wait… I – no!”

 

Any further protest was cut off by the doors of the station hissing shut behind him and the guards. Vector eyed her without comment, and after a moment, she became conscious of the weight of his gaze on her. Cipher felt suddenly weary, every fiber of her being strung taut with care.

 

“I probably shouldn't have done that,” she said quietly, her shoulders sagging as they lost the rigidity of her anger.

 

“Given Pashon his life?” Vector asked, his tone neutral as he inspected her aura closely, trying to understand what he read there, and how it intertwined with the unexpected moroseness that wove sluggishly through her voice. There were the jagged edges of an icy rage, heated frustration, and tension born of exhaustion, but there was an undercurrent of a strange sort of remorse for...what? The mercy she had shown in not executing Pashon immediately? Vector wasn't convinced that was it, and he let his question hang, awaiting her answer.

 

“No,” she clarified. “Used the Oroboro Killiks to dole out punishment on my behalf. Like I'm a coward incapable of doing it myself. It was thoughtless and inconsiderate of me; I used you, and I'm sorry about it. I did it once before, and I've done it again, in spite of myself.”

 

“Why did you?” Vector's question cut straight to the heart of the matter.

 

“ _Abomination_ ,” Paha quoted Pashon with a disgusted look on her face. “It seemed a sort of poetic justice for Pashon to become what he fears and loathes most.”

 

“We have learned not to let such things bother us.”

 

“Still bothered _me_ ,” Paha answered. 

 

Vector didn't answer, mulling the matter over. The discovery of the machinations that had led to his Joining had given him no additional insight into his memories of his being taken into the hive. Had he been willing? Had he objected? Moreover, did it even matter? Whatever he had thought then, he knew himself now: He was Dawn Herald of the Oroboro Colony. Despite the strange course of events that had brought him to this point, his acceptance was absolute. While he understood the Joining was a gift, it occurred to him that he had never questioned who – the hive, or the individual – was the true recipient. Pashon had his talents. If Joined, Pashon would be of use to the hive.

 

But the issue of Pashon's fate was of secondary concern, and his interest in it was only relevant as a means of understanding the jumbled signals that persisted in Paha's emotional state. For something as minor as name-calling from a petulant boy to have pushed her into decisions that she herself admitted were rash and incautious, delivered from a position of impatience and annoyance – what did that mean?

 

“This... seems unlike you,” he observed, and she glanced up at him, a little startled by the assessment.

 

“Well, I'm not being mind-controlled again, if that's what you're wondering,” she replied wryly. “But... I think I've made a mistake; a pretty big one. Dismissing Hunter's threat about making my activities public. I said it wouldn't matter. It never occurred to me that he would dig up my old missions like this.”

 

“Then you think this isn't the last?”

 

“No. Not at all,” Paha shook her head. “I'm not used to being wrong, particularly about something like this, about missing such an obvious tactic. About understanding how Hunter operates. And I'm not used to second-guessing my decisions. I'm used to doing what I have to, and then moving on to the next task, without a backward glance.”

 

When, Vector had asked not so very long ago, had his thoughts turned to violence? The same time, she questioned herself, that her own thoughts had begun consulting her conscience? At some point, without her ever noticing, she had begun to mentally screen her decisions through a filter labeled “Vector's approval,” and her swift condemnation of Pashon had bypassed that path.

 

“I was wrong,” she concluded, “to think that Hunter's grandstanding was just idle chatter.”

 

“But not because Pashon was a creditable threat,” Vector asserted. If Hunter was inciting open warfare on Cipher through remnants of her old missions, then the wisdom of her killing of Slyke and Ohta, he conceded, outstripped any consideration of it as a deplorable act. Given the proper resources, the bloodthirsty barbarism of Ohta and the wily cunning of Slyke would have made the pair an extremely creditable threat indeed.

 

“Not remotely! And Hunter knows that, too. Because he has read me better than I have read myself. He manipulated Pashon into coming after me, putting me in a lousy position: murder a stupid kid in cold blood, or let him live to nurse his grudges. I don't feel justified in doing the former, and I don't feel comfortable with the latter.”

 

She raised troubled eyes to Vector's face, adding, “And I was wrong, too, to think that Hunter's threats would only involve revealing my past. I failed to take into account my present. How he could affect my team. How he could affect you.”

 

“If Hunter thinks that he will influence you by having Pashon Cortess call us an abomination – ” Vector began.

 

“He'd be correct,” Paha interrupted. “Because that's exactly what I did. Embarrassing, to have let him play me exactly as he foresaw! Chalk up this one as a win for Hunter.”

 

“We think you aren't being particularly fair to yourself,” Vector frowned. “You pointed out yourself that you were caught between two unacceptable choices; there is credit in your solution. Pashon arrested and on trial – these are fair repercussions for his crime. It may be some time before his imprisonment is over.”

 

“Yes, and time enough to reassess his future then,” Paha finished the thought. “But I don't particularly care about Pashon's fate. I'm more concerned with...  _ours_.”

 

Vector gave her a look of encouragement, his eyes holding hers in a solemn gaze. “ _Our_ melodies are secure. We don't plan on allowing Hunter to affect that. Not in any meaningful way.” He reached out a hand to interlace his fingers delicately between hers. “Hunter will simply have to accustom himself to the idea that there are some songs he cannot throw out of tune.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I actually have pretty much no notes for this one. Weird.


	18. Night Skies and Flame Gems

Belsavis might have held many natural beauties in Cipher’s eyes, but she nonetheless wasn’t sorry to leave it behind.  It was a troubled planet, home to troubled people, and those had a way of rubbing off on visitors.  Of course, as the fires of war between the Empire and the Republic were stoked up in earnest, there weren’t many places left in the galaxy that weren’t troubled in one way or another.

 

Cipher rested one shoulder against the bulkhead door and watched Scorpio warily.  The assassin droid had made a thorough survey of the ship, and had ended up here in the engine room, apparently selecting this spot as her own.  Doubtful that it was for personal comfort.

 

“I hope you’re not thinking of trying to sabotage the engines,” Cipher said flatly.

 

“Your comments expose the weakness of an illogical mind,” Scorpio replied with equal coldness.  “I cannot damage the ship while you hold my restraint codes.  When I am no longer fettered by those, I will not risk damage to myself by destroying this ship.  I will kill you each individually, and use the airlock to ensure your remains do not continue to sully this vessel.”

 

“Well, aren’t _you_ a bucket of laughs,” snorted Kaliyo, peering at their new passenger.  “I’ve met bantha farts more pleasant than you.”

 

From behind Cipher, Vector mused, “We never anticipated that we would see stars shine on a day when you, Agent, were accused of having an illogical mind.”

 

Cipher made a sardonic noise of amusement.  “It’s a broad galaxy,” she said, “And it takes all kinds.”

 

“Do we have to keep her?” Temple asked from a few feet further up the hallway.  She didn’t look happy about the anticipated answer.

 

“Afraid so,” Cipher answered, pulling herself away from the doorjamb and straightening.  “Once her databanks are uploaded to Imperial Intelligence, she comes back here.”

 

They were speeding across a vacant stretch of the Outer Rim, the first leg of the lengthy journey back to Dromund Kaas and Intelligence Headquarters, to address that very issue.  Some of her basic data, the unencrypted surface files, had already been sent to Watcher Three for him to initiate his analyses, but the bulk of the data was too intricate and extensive to be transmitted even over a secure line.  Even without the technological limitations, the sensitivity of the information ensured that a direct upload was imperative.  Until then, Cipher would simply watch her, and try to figure out what to do with her – and doubtless, Scorpio was using her forced captivity to follow a similar train of thought, albeit one somewhat more lethal.  Long after Temple and Kaliyo had drifted away, Cipher remained, watchful and contemplative.

 

“Agent, Master Vector,” Lokin interrupted at her side.  She expected a comment on their new passenger, and was surprised that he had something else to say.  “There have been some communications from the Diplomatic Service in your absence, and they would like to speak with you, Vector.  I believe they have completed the arrangements for your talks.”

 

“Thank you, Doctor,” Vector answered, his face alive with eagerness and anticipation.  “Excuse us; we shall get in touch with the Diplomatic Service immediately.”

 

“Take all the time you need,” Cipher nodded to him as he left.  Lokin remained, however, and she gave him her attention, seeing the intent look on his face.

 

“The best spy I ever knew lost his anonymity at his daughter’s wedding.  A holocam caught him by accident.  He was dead a week later.  We counted forty-two suspects,” Lokin told her seriously.

 

It was strange, Cipher thought, that whichever way she turned, she met these tiny hints of the private lives – or rather, the private _loves_ – of other agents.  And just as curious, all evidence so far had pointed to them as being successful.  But those were considerations for another time – perhaps irrelevant considerations, even, at this stage.  She had made her decision.

 

“Pashon is no longer a threat,” Cipher replied, “and I don’t doubt Hunter will dig up someone else to aim at me.  But I don’t think I will feel seriously threatened until I’m up against Hunter himself.”

 

“Even so, don’t be careless.  Keep your guard up,” Lokin cautioned.  “We’d better find your enemies soon.”

 

Cipher had no argument with that.

 

\- - - -

 

The date for the summit had indeed been set, and whether it was the result of Vector’s urging, or because of the war driving the need for allies, particularly on a planet positioned so close to the heart of the Republic, the Diplomatic Service had obliged with a short wait.  Very short, in fact; the assembly would take place a mere few days away.  The escalation of the war had presented a new challenge: Alderaan was currently unaligned, but it resided thoroughly within Republic space, where a non-diplomatic Imperial ship, such as the _Phantom_ , could not risk travel without being blasted to debris.  Undaunted, Vector made arrangements to meet a trade freighter captain on Nar Shaddaa who could provide transport to Alderaan.  Cipher had no objection to the slight trip aside on their return trip to Dromund Kaas, and she busied herself with ship operations as Vector absorbed himself in preparations for the meeting. 

 

Once again, the demands of duty triumphed over their private desires, and Vector sighed, momentarily setting aside the data pad outlining the treaty requests and hopes of the Imperial delegates.  Once, some long time earlier, in the infancy of their relationship – before, even, an actual possibility of their relationship arose out of so many improbabilities – Paha had made a flippant joke of sneaking off to a planet all their own.  It was an exceptionally appealing idea, if they could find one.  No Empire, no Republic, no Sith, no Jedi, no Intelligence, no SIS, no Hunter, no Star Cabal, no demands, no responsibilities… No duties, just desire.  Nothing to distract them from their enjoyment of rest, relaxation, and each other. 

 

He had no way to know that on the bridge, Paha’s thoughts unfolded in a similar pattern, and she found it a welcome, if frustrating, change of pace from her obsessive concerns regarding Hunter and his Star Cabal.  She had been looking forward to the journey back to Dromund Kaas, hoping that at least some portion of the trip would be sufficiently dull to allow them a few minutes of their own, but it seemed, disappointingly, that this wish would be once again deferred.

 

Vector heard the tell-tale shift in the engine sound and the now-familiar feeling of stretching and compression that signaled that the _Phantom_ had dropped out of hyperspace.  This was normally followed by the sound of the auxiliary engines taking over; on this occasion, to cross the remaining distance and descent into Mezenti Spaceport on Nar Shaddaa.  His attention, however, was focused on yet another perusal of the personnel files of delegates for the summit, and he was slow in realizing that the auxiliary engines sat still and quiet, emitting their usual low standby hum.  Curious, he raised his head, listening more carefully to confirm his conclusion, then headed to the bridge to investigate.

 

Cipher sat there, slouching aside in the command chair with one leg crossed over the other at the knee, looking grumpy and uncomfortable and giving a disgruntled expression to the vista that spread before the clear shielding that fronted the bridge.  The view offered the usual sight of Nar Shaddaa, glittering brightly before the larger murky sphere of Hutta, but the intervening space between the Smuggler’s Moon and the _Phantom_ swarmed with a whirling throng of ships: freighters, pleasure yachts, barges, transports both private and public, corporate shuttles, corvettes – ships of more type and number than Vector had ever conceived of in one place together, clogging the airspace above Nar Shaddaa’s atmosphere in a cacophony of metal and glowing beacons.

 

“We have never,” Vector remarked, stunned at the chaos before his eyes, “seen such a maelstrom of lights before.  What is all this?”

 

Cipher sighed before giving him a weary smile.  “Mass evacuation from the Cores,” she explained.  “It seems that, with the word of the resumption of hostilities between the Empire and the Republic, people are getting out while the getting is good.  It looks like everyone who could beg, borrow, buy, or steal a ride has had the same idea.”

 

“Imperial, Imperial, Czerka Corporation,” Vector tallied ships by insignia or style as they drifted past the _Phantom_ ’s window, jockeying for position or shuffling to maintain distance. “Republic… unidentified, Mandalorian, Republic, Czerka, Imperial...even Black Sun and the Exchange.  Astonishing that they meet with no aggression on either side.  No one wants to antagonize the Hutts.”

 

“Instigating a space battle and a multi-ship pile-up would certainly put a damper on the flow of traffic,” agreed Cipher.  “And neither Empire nor Republic can afford to come between a Hutt and his money.”

 

“The Hutts won’t sit this one out,” Vector asserted, “but we doubt they will declare for one side or another.  They stand to make too much by both sides.  For every Nem’ro we can convince to back the Empire, the Republic will find a Nem’ro of their own.”

 

“The galaxy goes to war,” Cipher observed quietly, “and the Hutts get richer.  No matter what the victories, Hutta will be home to the real winners.” 

 

“We wonder how much the Hutts are demanding for docking and entrance fees for all of these,” Vector mused.  “It can’t be cheap to be a refugee to Nar Shaddaa, and the business opportunity here is so obvious a child wouldn’t fail to take advantage.  Still, the forbearance of so many – it is considerable.  It seems Imperial and Republican can sustain some sort of peace, once in a while.”

 

“I’m more cynical than you.  Look there,” Cipher pointed at a large stationary vessel that hulked brutishly among the slowly circling ships, its long-muzzled guns trained in every direction and giving it the appearance of the fanged snout of some lethal beast.  “That frigate, it’s the _Adamant_.  Captained by a former Mandalorian, named Telfin Thar.  Intelligence indicates Thar was exiled – vicious dishonor in combat, I think, although I didn’t dig into the report – disappeared for a time, and resurfaced with that ship and a private army.  The Hutts have purchased him, or at least he has agreed to be rented for a while.   And those,” she pointed out a handful of smaller ships.  “Enforcers, largely Gamorrean staffed, and under Thar’s command.  I would say that his presence would have a lot to do with keeping the calm here.”

 

“That can’t have been cheap, either, but we believe the Hutts are great subscribers to the axiom that one has to spend money to make money,” Vector added, then looked back at Cipher.  “Intelligence knows the Hutts have recruited this Thar?”  Both Imperial and Republic factions freely made use of hired mercenaries, particularly for tasks which would be best performed with some distance between the perpetrators and the official channels.  The removal of a force such as Thar’s from either Republic or Imperial use would be of note.

 

“They didn’t.  They do now.  I eavesdropped on Thar’s communications,” Cipher shrugged.  “What?  I’ve been bored.  It’s going to be a long wait.”

 

Feeling faintly troubled, Vector inquired, “How long is long?”

 

Cipher glanced at the console.  “We are currently sitting at position two hundred and thirty-seven to dock.”

 

Vector’s head whipped away from the view out the window to stare at her.  “Two hundred –” he repeated faintly.

 

“…and thirty-seven,” Cipher confirmed.  A soft chime issued from the console and she exclaimed, “Ah! Two hundred and thirty- _six_.”

 

“Perhaps a financial incentive might speed matters along?” he suggested hopefully.

 

“Vector,” Cipher replied drily, “Two hundred and thirty-six _is_ after the bribe.  We _were_ at eight hundred and ninety-four.”

 

“Oh.  Well, then,” Vector murmured fretfully, turning back to stare out into the churning mayhem.

 

Cipher rose from the chair, stretching the stiffness from her cramped muscles, and then stepped into the space behind Vector, sliding her arms around his chest and resting her cheek against his back. 

 

“Don’t worry,” she bolstered his nerves.  “I will ensure you get to the summit on time, even if I fly you there myself.”

 

“You wouldn’t risk taking the _Phantom_ into Republic space,” he replied automatically, nonetheless sounding encouraged as he reached up to cover her hand with his own.

 

“Alderaan is neutral,” she reminded him.

 

“And too close to Coruscant,” he countered.

 

“Bah.  Details,” she chuckled.  “But I mean it.  I’ll get you there.  It might require alternate arrangements, but you’ll be there.  It’s too important, now more than ever.  Let me get on the horn and see who else is out there.  Might be someone who owes me a favor.”

 

“Thank you,” he answered sincerely, turning in her embrace to face her.  He slid his hands past her waist, clasping them together against the small of her back, and kissed her briefly.  “We mean that.”

 

“The thank you, or the kiss?” she replied with a smile.

 

“Both,” he answered.  With reluctance, he stepped back.  “We won’t keep you, and we still have preparations to complete.  But… should you find yourself bored again…”  He let the open-ended invitation hang in the air unfinished.

 

“I didn’t want to interrupt you,” Paha said, a little apologetically.  “But…I’ll keep it in mind.  I’ll meet you as soon as I have something.”

 

\- - - -

 

It was another two hours before that something manifested itself. 

 

“Good news, and bad news,” Paha announced as she entered the cargo hold.  “The good news: We won’t have to dock at Nar Shaddaa at all.  I’ve been in touch with your freighter captain, and he’s willing to do a direct ship-to-ship transfer.  He won’t be caught in that mess out there, as he has some method – illegal, I’m sure – to bypass Mezenti Spaceport altogether for his cargo.”

 

“Good news, indeed,” nodded Vector. “And the bad?”

 

“He’s been delayed,” Paha frowned.  “Some ten or twelve hours.  Maybe as long as sixteen.  But he assures he will still be able to get you to Alderaan in plenty of time.”  She hoisted herself onto her customary perch on the cargo crate.  “Nothing to do but wait.  Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to go with you?”

 

“You don’t want to sit through it all,” Vector shook his head.  “These sorts of talks can be… lengthy.”

 

“And you’re afraid I’ll be bored?”

 

“We’re afraid you’ll get into trouble,” he quipped.  “Eavesdropping on freelancers around Nar Shaddaa is one thing.  Eavesdropping on communications on Alderaan could be quite another.”

 

“Spoilsport,” she replied good-naturedly.

 

“We also would not like to see you arrested for spying,” he answered with equal amusement. “That would not exactly be part of our ideal treaty summit.”

 

“I think you have another reason for leaving me behind,” she said, raising one eyebrow flirtatiously.

 

Vector recognized the tease this time.  Clearly, she wanted him to ask about her suspicion, and he obliged.  “Which would be what?”

 

“If I’m there, you won’t be able to concentrate on the talks worth a damn,” she replied saucily, her eyes dancing.

 

He laughed aloud his agreement with her shrewd assessment, and replied airily, “We will have you know that we don’t require your physical presence to disrupt our concentration.  We can manage that quite sufficiently with just thoughts of you alone.”

 

“Hm,” she returned with an irrepressible grin, “looks like my presence _would_ be redundant after all.”

 

“But, that aside,” he added more soberly, “we would like to ask a favor.  More than any other Imperial, you’ve seen the nests and how they function.  Your word could carry weight.  We’d appreciate your honest assessment: One final report that we can present to the Imperial summit attendees.”

 

“Gladly,” Paha stated.  “An alliance with the Killiks would benefit the Empire immensely, and I’m not afraid to say so.  I’ve already submitted a report to Intelligence on the matter.  I assume the same would suffice here?”

 

“It would, and we look forward to it,” Vector answered.  He felt relieved, and attributed it to nerves regarding the upcoming talks, and the unreserved support from Paha did a great deal to steady him.  He fell quiet for a moment as he looked at her, memorizing the lines of her face and the sweep of those two locks of hair that hid her jawline, taking the measure of the exact shade of her scarlet eyes, and letting the vibrant glow of her aura imprint itself on his mind.  If he were going to allow the memory of her to occupy his thoughts – or even interrupt his concentration – while he was away, then he would ensure that memory was a well-constructed one.

 

Twelve hours, she had said.  Twelve hours before the freighter captain arrived to take him to Alderaan.  He had been so used to the caprices of circumstance being a barrier to their time together that he nearly failed to recognize when they, for once, were poised to act in their favor, and the prospect dawning in his mind shook him, thunderstruck, from all thoughts of work.  Paha’s observant eyes detected the change in his countenance, but she couldn’t identify its source.

 

“Vector?” she inquired, uncertain if she should be concerned or not.  “Was there something else you wanted to discuss?”

 

“Yes,” he said with a slight hesitation rising from his sudden awareness of the violence of his heart as it beat within his chest.  “But… we’d like some privacy.  No crew members, no Killiks, no emergencies… if you could arrange it.”

 

He could see a distinct wave of puzzlement ripple through her aura, and could hear the abrupt change in the rhythm of her own heartbeat as she tried to weigh possibilities and expectations against each other.  Was this a prelude to… she paused, nearly breathless, then finished the question of herself: was he asking what she _thought_ he was asking?  There were ways of finding out, some more fun than others.

 

“I can arrange it,” she answered, coyly adding, “Should I dim the lights?  Pour a drink?”

 

“If you like,” Vector replied, a warm smile blossoming slowly across his face.

 

Well, then!  That _did_ make things clear.

 

"Give me ten minutes to clear the ship," Paha said, an eager and nervous flutter thrilling through her, "and I am all yours."

 

“We’ll meet you shortly,” he nodded as she turned to leave, throwing him a lingering glance over her shoulder that sent a jolt through him as fiercely as if he had touched a live wire.

 

She accomplished her task in almost half the time, thanks to a passing shuttle transport that responded to her hail and the liberal promise of easy credits.

 

Moments later, Raina Temple, the last to be seated, looked around the transport pod as it pulled back from the airlock, reserving her most wary eye for Scorpio, seated stiffly aside in a corner as far as she could possibly draw herself from Toovee.  Toovee?  Raina nearly did a double-take, and turned her head to look inquiringly at Kaliyo and Lokin, belatedly connecting the obvious dots regarding who was absent.

 

“Hey, do you think –” she began uncertainly.

 

“Yes,” Lokin cut her off firmly as Kaliyo simultaneously snarked, “Oh, yeah.”

 

“And it's about damn time," Kaliyo added, folding her arms.  “I swear, there's swamp fog on Dagobah thinner than the tension between those two.  I was about ready to lock them in the engine room together.  Well, before _she_ took it over, anyway,” Kaliyo added, jerking a thumb at the assassin droid.

 

“It's their business, not ours,” said Lokin sternly, then, breaking into something like an avuncular grin, he added.  “Still, I say: good for them!  A little happiness.  Take it where you can find it.”

 

“Disgusting,” sneered Scorpio from her corner.

 

“Well, I wouldn’t expect you to know anything about it,” Lokin shrugged nonchalantly in response.

 

“I was not speaking to you,” Scorpio replied pithily.  “Nor do I care about the vulgar behaviors of your kind.  What is disgusting is that I, the most advanced AI of this age and more than one before it, have been relegated to… _this_.”

 

Temple hadn’t considered it possible for the sculpted metal face of a droid to exhibit the utmost disdain, but Scorpio was doing exactly that, thanks to the sophisticated construction of her chassis.  “To babysit this inferior thing,” Scorpio continued bitterly, clearly referring to Toovee.  “A bodyguard to a mindless droid.  I have never been so insulted.”

 

“I am very glad of your protection, Mistress Scorpio,” Toovee replied obligingly.  “I have heard horror stories of Nar Shaddaa; droids captured and sold for scrap!  Thank the maker our master thought to trust me to your guardianship!  Our master has given me quite a list of tasks to do, and I would not want to leave them incomplete through some mishap.”

 

“After I have the exquisite joy of peeling the flesh from _your_ master’s skeleton, I will take nearly equal delight in dismantling you with similar thoroughness,” Scorpio snapped.

 

“I am afraid I must object to that plan,” returned Toovee with his programmed subservience, “as it would void my warranty.”

 

“It’s kind of fascinating,” Temple whispered to Lokin as the transport set down at a small satellite landing pad outside the spaceport.  “It’s like a comedy duo or something.”

 

“Alright!  We are on a holiday, and we are on Nar Shaddaa,” Kaliyo interrupted, waving her hand at the neon lights that glittered without cessation across the landscape of the Smuggler's Moon.  “I don't know what _you_ chumps are gonna do, but I plan on finding a seedy gambling den, getting blind stinking drunk, and starting a few bar fights.  You want in, Temple?  You could put some of those dirty fighting moves I've shown you into some real practice.  Where are you headed, Doc?  There has to be a coffeehouse around here that caters to maiden aunts and spinster physicists or something. I could ask directions for you,” she added magnanimously.

 

“It is a charming offer, but I will pass.  I have some favorite haunts of my own here,” the doctor replied easily.  “Probably less exciting than yours, but I am an old man, as you are so fond of pointing out.”

 

“Your loss,” Kaliyo replied with perfect indifference, leading on from the landing pad, bustling with travelers.  “Come on, Temple.”

 

“But does it have to be a brawl?  Can't we just stop after the blind stinking drunk part?” Raina inquired.

 

“What, you know a better way to meet men _and_ learn if they can hold their own in a fight at the same time?  If you do, I am all ears.”

 

\- - - -

 

Paha was standing at the desk console in her quarters when she heard the welcome sound of Vector's familiar step and her heart throbbed in time with it. She didn't look up from the last few taps her trembling fingers made as they skittered over the security readout, and she reported, “Everyone is gone until tomorrow, the doors are secure, and the ship is on radio silence.  We have it all to –” her voice faltered as she stepped back from the terminal and caught sight of him. 

 

“– ourselves,” she finished faintly, a look of astonished confusion and charmed wonder sliding over her features.

 

“I’m here, Agent,” he smiled from the open door, hoping his tone conveyed more assurance than he felt.  True to her word, the lights were softly dimmed and he spied two tell-tale glasses nearby, and the sight of them gave him a second or two to gather himself before he stepped into the room.  Her crimson eyes met his – not the solid black Killik depths she was accustomed to, but a soft and sparkling golden brown in a pool of scleral white, intent and altogether human. 

 

“Surprise,” he murmured, not at all certain of how she would react.

 

She crossed the room to him staring unabashedly.  “How...?” she inquired.

 

“I know it isn't what you expected.  The Aebea nest taught me to repress the pheromonic bond. I was looking for a way to address the matter of Imperial secrets... That is how I started, anyway. I can maintain it for a little while.  Not very long, not often.  But enough."  She still hadn't indicated whether she liked it or not, and he rushed ahead with his explanation, taking her hands between his own.  "This is a time for us to be together.  One you needn’t share with Oroboro or the Colony.”

 

“You have nice eyes,” she gave him a bashful smile.  She was delighted at the sight, but it gave her a strange sensation of possessiveness, even as she was conscious of feeling honored at his choice to show her this.  “More than nice, they are beautiful.”

 

Vector face flushed, gratified and pleased.  It had taken him a considerable amount of study, practice, and effort, and he was relieved and thrilled at the positivity of her response.  But for all that, he still sensed some intangible bit of hesitation in her manner, a phantom of lurking uncertainty that he wasn't sure wasn't entirely his own, and with the bond suppressed, he couldn't rely on the tell-tale signals of her aura.

 

“What is it?” he asked, his concern bordering on a fear that he had made a mistake.

 

“Vector,” Paha said slowly, muddling through a minefield of ideas, and cautious about giving voice to them, “I... I am not human.  I never have been; I never will be.  My skin will always be blue.  My eyes will always be red.  I can't change these things.  I can't be human; I can't appear human.  I’ll never have human eyes.”

 

“I don't want you to,” he replied sincerely.

 

“...and?” Paha prompted him.  The corollary was obvious, but his own uncertainty, impressed upon him by the reactions of almost everyone else he had met, still had had the power to block it from his sight; it took viewing himself through her own eyes for him to understand it on his own.

 

“I didn’t know,” he admitted, “but expected to learn one day.  I’m glad it happened like this.  I… just wanted you to know I could.”

 

“And I thank you!” Paha exclaimed, bright tints of purple deepening in her cheeks.  “That you – that anyone – would do such a thing, for me!  I can't begin to say how... how grateful, how... touched I am!   So much, and... I – but..."

 

Oh, how she was bungling this!  She pulled her eyes away from the unfamiliar sight of his, focusing her vision on their hands joined before their chests with their fingers entwined in a knot of tan and azure, and aimed to forge bravely ahead, sucking in a breath of air to interrupt her awkward stammering. 

 

“What I am trying to say,” she spoke low and clear, as if fearful of mispronouncing the words, “is that the man I _fell_ _in_ _love_ _with_ isn't human, either.”

 

Vector was never sure later which part stunned him the more: the confession of her love, or the admission that her love was for him as a whole, not just his human fragment.  It was a possibility that had dwelled in remote realms far beyond his any expectation.  The heart within his breast – human, Killik, or some ineffable mixture of the two – swelled with a choking emotion, mingling joy, love, anticipation, and relief along with a dozen subtler sensations, as indivisible and undefined as the two halves of his nature.  Nearly overwhelmed, he almost lost the control he held over the gift he presented to her.

 

"I think there was another reason, too," he said when he could recover his voice.  "I wanted, for once, to see you as everyone else see you…  Even without your electric aura, you are just as lovely," he murmured as he slid one hand from their entwined grasp to gently brush back the falcon wing of hair from her temple, and she closed her eyes to relish the soft sensation of his fingertips caressing her skin.  "But it still isn't the same, is it?  No matter what vision I use, I will never see you as others do."

 

He turned his head a little aside then, drawing slightly away from her and blinking, and when he looked back at her, his eyes were as she knew them, black and fathomless.  She looked into them again as portals to that strange and wonderful soul.

 

"There they are," she said softly, nearly to herself, "just as they should be.  A night sky without stars."

 

She was not normally given to metaphor, and he was moved by the poetic imagery, an apt lyric uttered in her own voice.  "Night skies," he repeated as he bent his head to hers, gliding his free hand around her waist to gently pull her against him, "and flame gems."

 

“Mine?” she mumbled into his lips as he kissed her.

 

“Of course.”

 

“I always thought of them as the color of blood.”

 

“No.  Blood is never so radiant as the stars of your eyes,” he assured her.  He knew the color of her eyes as surely as he knew the shape of his hand.  “Flame gems, we are certain.”

 

She could feel the rapidity of his heartbeat beneath the fingers she rested against his chest, and he could feel the trembling of her body in his arms, and he automatically tightened his embrace as she kissed him again. 

 

“I have a surprise for you, too,” she said a few delicious moments later.  She glided gently away from him, catching him lightly by the fingertips, leading him further into the room.  Near the bed she let go, gesturing to it with a tiny flick of her hand as she invited, “Sit down.”

 

He obeyed, seating himself on the mattress edge and watching her with interest while she crossed the room, sauntering back with a glass in each hand, a familiar scent wafting from the sturdy, Imperial-issued cups.  He recognized the odor nearly at once, but he disbelieved the possibility, and it was not until the delectable liquid touched his tongue that he was certain of his appraisal.

 

“Membrosia!” Vector exclaimed with amazed delight.  “How ever did you get this gift of the Kind?”

 

“I have my ways,” Paha replied smugly around the rim of her glass as she took a drink.  “But really, it was Daizanna.  She was only too happy to help.  I piggybacked an encrypted request on one of your messages to her regarding your diplomatic efforts.  I’m still amazed it stayed hidden after that nonsense with Kaliyo.  Once or twice I thought for sure you’d caught me.”

 

“How fortunate for us both we’re not as suspicious as you are,” he answered, his dark eyes glittering with amusement above the quirk of his smile.  “Or as thorough.”

 

The music of her laughter filled his ears as she sat down beside him on the bed, sipping at the aromatic, intoxicating nectar, and for a few moments, they relished the acute pleasure of simply existing in the personal, private world created by this small safe space, with the warming feeling of knowing the other shared it.  After such extensive time spent on edge, addressing the commands and demands of so many other interests and concerns, the novelty of relaxing side-by-side was going to take some getting used to.  The calm of casual conversation, the ease of a familiar drink - Vector appreciated Paha’s foresight in these tactics, designed to blunt the corners of their mutual tension and to soothe away the jitters of agitated nerves.  Her nerves or his?  Both, he decided, after comparing what he saw in her aura with what he felt in his own.

 

He could see something else there, too, something a little opaque and somewhat tense, more serious than her lightness implied, and he regarded her a moment before reaching out to her again, stroking back the captivating strands of indigo hair, and asking, “We see the weight of your thoughts; will you share them with us?” 

 

He wanted no reservations, no hesitations, nothing but openness and affirmation between them.  She had given him a gift he felt most precious, the gift of her whole-hearted acceptance and love, and he would give her anything she desired.  When, through whatever efforts he could offer, he could see her aura unburdened by care, then, only then, with her soul free and unharassed by ache or apprehension, would he let himself accept her bodily welcome.

 

“The Colony,” she said, a trifle self-conscious under his gaze.  “Are you in close contact with them now?”

 

“No,” he answered, with a burgeoning understanding.  “The distance from Alderaan, the interference of so many airy signals around the moon – we could manage short, emergency communications, but that is all.”

 

“Good,” she replied with a flicker of a relieved smile.  “Because you were right: I shouldn’t have to share this.  And neither should _you_.  I know I have to share you with the Colony.  You have to share me with Intelligence.  But this…"

 

"Then it will be ours, and ours alone,” Vector said with tender reassurance.  “As we said: no crew, no Killiks.  We each of us free of our audiences.”

 

Their weight depressing the mattress beneath the purple duvet had a tendency to tilt them towards each other.  Paha stopped working against the effect, letting it tip her against him, bringing them shoulder to shoulder and face to face, and he scented the lingering membrosia on her breath a second before he tasted it on her lips as he kissed her, lightly, almost reverently at first, then with increasing ardor and depth. 

 

“We love you,” he murmured, and the words seized him with a surge of elation, as an anthem of truth he saw echoed in her heart, so he took the liberty of saying it again as he looked into the kindling fires of her eyes.  “Paha, we love you.”

 

“I know,” she whispered, and she did.  She had no idea when she had figured it out, or when she had first begun to suspect it, but the conviction, unexpressed and inexpressible, had been part of her hidden knowledge of herself for some time, creeping in around the corners of her life until it was too rooted there to be unnoticed or denied.  Vector quietly took the empty glass from her hand and set it aside on the floor with his, then sat back on the bed, comfortably this time, instead of perching at the edge.

 

“Come here,” he commanded softly, laying his hands upon her hips and guiding her leg across him, settling her in his lap astride his thighs and feeling the tensed quiver of her muscles as her heart gave a new leap.  She draped her arms over his shoulders, interlacing her fingers together in the distance beyond his head, and shifted her weight, balanced on her knees, as she shuffled closer, wriggling against him in a manner neither of them found unpleasant.

 

“ _Under_ _you_ ,” he quoted.  “We told you we would keep it in mind.”

 

Paha erupted into a fit of giggling, caught unawares by her keyed-up nerves as much as by the unexpected comment, and she buried her face in his shoulder for a moment, striving to get a hold of herself.  Letting her take her time, and taking his time himself, Vector wrapped his arms around her, cradling her closely to him, cherishing the warmth of her weight filling his embrace.  Even if some disaster interrupted them now, the almost unbearable sweetness of this satisfying moment would stand forever in his memory, and he focused on it, noting the tiny, treasured details, from the temperature of her body to the texture of her uniform jacket beneath his fingertips, and the sound of her breath, half-caught in laughter, to the welcoming scent of her azure skin, tantalizing and bare between her collar and her ear, just centimeters from his lips and waiting to be kissed.  This moment held them in thrall, and there was no better way to break its spell; he lightly bent the obscuring collar aside with one finger and she inhaled sharply as his lips caressed the spot, gentle as the brush of a butterfly's wing.

 

His touch was so different, so novel, from anything she had experienced before.  The warm velvet touch of Vector's lips below her ear sent a delightful shiver skittering over her skin and a frisson of pleasure radiantly sparking through her aura.  Her fingers were curled into the fabric of his zippered jacket; she twitched involuntarily, biting her lip as he touched upon a point of exquisite sensitivity.

 

In encounters long past, her routine was to permit kisses on her neck – and only her neck – but nothing about this was routine, nor did she want it to be. She drew her head back from his shoulder to look him in the face; he looked back at her with an expression that nearly overcame her, and she let her herself fall into the starless night of his eyes, drawing her down until her mouth met his, and then drawing her deeper still.  Her old rules seemed foolish against the discovery of how much she thoroughly enjoyed kissing him, and she was of a mind to let him know how deeply that enjoyment ran.  He responded eagerly, euphorically matching her kiss for burning kiss, and thrill for jubilant thrill.  This time, she understood that it was the emotion, not the kiss, which gave her the illusory feeling of suffocation, now welcome where it had once been so carefully and assiduously avoided.

 

When they separated at last, Vector took a small gasp of air, left shaken and dizzy from her passion and the way his own had answered.  His heart felt expansive, filling his chest as though it would break his ribs with the violence of its rhythm as each beat drove blood and desire through his veins, and it took him a moment to realize she was tugging, one-handed, at her uniform jacket, which she found suddenly uncharacteristically restrictive.

 

"Wait, let us," he murmured, his strong fingers working quickly to deftly undo the fastenings.  He slid the jacket back from her shoulders and the sleeveless tank she wore beneath, and gave her a sly smile.  "We recall doing something like this once before."

 

"I hope it is more fun this time around," Paha replied, letting the coat fall carelessly to the floor behind her. 

 

“We note there is a lack of head trauma, so we are off to an encouraging start,” Vector chuckled, running his hands up the length of her bared arms as hers went to the zipper of his jacket, which moments later she tossed alongside hers.  It became a leisurely and satisfying game, each article of clothing shed gradually in turns and deposited alongside its discarded companions, scattered over the floor, and they honored each loss with lingering kisses and tantalizing caresses, splendid and unhurried.

 

Vector was of a naturally lean and athletic build; Killik training and countless battles at her side had burned away the bodily softness of a diplomat’s life from his muscles, refining him –  magnificently to her eyes –  just the same as her life had honed her into a creature of long, slender sinews, defined and strong beneath her vibrant blue skin.  That skin was deceptive; its cold color belied its softness and its warmth as he explored it with gentle, precise fingers, touching her with an elegant, deliberate delicacy, a gallant grace that she had come to recognize characterized most of his movements. 

 

In reciprocation, Paha peeled away the last of the interfering fabric that separated them, resettling herself in his lap naked and sublime, the points of her rounded breasts brushing lightly over his chest as she moved, firing electric adrenaline through him.  He bowed his head to them, to sing his silent praise of their soft perfection with his lips against the susceptible skin, and to his worshipful paean she gave a harmonic countermelody of little punctuating notes of pleasure.

 

Loosening her fingers from where they coiled in the dark hair on the back of his head, she steadied herself with her hands on his shoulders as she straightened and rose up, responding to a motion of his hips that he had not even been aware he had made, and the mute question asked by his need and strength she answered wordlessly as she gradually sank upon him.  He caught his breath with a small unintelligible sound as she surrounded him, feeling her slow, careful movements as much a tease as any glance or word, but a tease of the most consummate and agonizing kind.  It was nearly beyond bearing; he curled his arms around her and pulled her against him, closing the final distance between them, and she gasped, pleasure-pierced and trembling, opened fully to his touching the most secret and tender places of her soul, heart, and body.  The sheen of perspiration over their skins sparkled like crystals, throwing back the dim light from every shivering facet, flickering as they rocked in unison, rapt in a dance to a melody heard by their own ears alone.

 

She said something in Chenuh, so broken into fragments by her ragged breathing that he couldn’t have understood it regardless of the language, but its fervent urgency needed no translation.  She clung to him tightly as he pressed into her ever more deeply, straining and shaken, and, in a burst of dazzling sparks, bright and brilliant, their heated bodies and flaring auras united as one, and their voices raised jointly in the most passionate and primal of hymns.

 

They clutched each other, fiercely and tenderly, in the frozen moment that followed, then he pulled her with him as he dropped back on the bed, still and silent but for the sound of their paired breathing.  Shifting only to ensure their comfort as they lay together, he wrapped his arms loosely around her prone body, stretched languidly on his, and her cheek rested with natural ease on his chest.  Somnolence followed the release, and for a long time, they neither of them moved, other than to draw a corner of the disarrayed bedding partially over them, blocking the cool, recycled air of the ship from chilling their damp skin.

 

Fully discarding the last of her old rules, Paha dozed lightly against the comforting warmth of Vector’s body, and he took advantage of the calm to regard her through drowsy, half-closed eyes, tracing the smooth curves of her figure with his gaze and matching the sight with the lines and colors he saw in her aura, watching the lazily shifting tones of tranquility, fulfillment, and love glowing in equal abundance.  There was no need to ask how she felt; the answer to that question lay stretched before him as clearly as her physical form itself.  Happy beyond all expectation or measure, almost to the point where it pained him, Vector turned his head and bestowed a gentle kiss just at her hairline, and she stirred, looking up at him with glossy eyes that held a mild curiosity.

 

“We can hear the singing of the stars,” he murmured, running his hand down the length of her back with a light and languorous touch, “and in your soul shines their radiance.”

 

“Mmm,” she replied, laying her head again and inhaling his scent, all maleness, musk, and membrosia. 

 

“I sometimes wish,” she added a moment - or was it an hour? - later, as her fingertips wandered idly over his skin, “that I could see things the way you do.  How you see beauty in everything.  But then, if I could see it myself, I wouldn’t get to hear you describe it.”

 

“We occasionally think our words don’t do it justice,” he admitted, relishing her light caress.

 

“Really?  How so?” she inquired curiously.  Fully awake now, Paha propped herself up slightly on one elbow, giving him an impeccable view of the curvaceous slope of her breasts resting against his chest.

 

“You,” he answered directly.  He squirmed a little under her touch, feeling his heart speed with renewing eagerness.  “We often find our words inadequate when it comes to you.  You defy description and category.”

 

“I hope so.  I wouldn’t want to be boring,” she returned as the ghostly brush of her fingers journeyed over some distractingly responsive locations of his body.

 

“That is one thing we are certain you can never be,” Vector said, punctuating his declaration with an indistinct noise of interest and pleasure, and he pulled her down to kiss her fervently, her taste completing the arousal begun by her touch.  “Again?”

 

“Oh, well, _I_ have the benefit of artificially increased stamina,” she declared roundly, granting him the most lascivious grin in her arsenal.  “But I understand if _you_ are tired.”

 

With a sudden motion, he rolled them both over, grabbing her hands and holding them akimbo in the tangled bedding, and pinning her, open and exposed, beneath him with his hips. 

 

“We will remind you that we have been confirmed by a medical professional to be stronger –” he leaned down and kissed her hungrily - “– more capable –” – another kiss, liberally bestowed to one sumptuous breast – “– the ideal soldier –” – and another kiss, wantonly granted to the other – “or infiltrator.” 

 

As he bent to return to her lips for the last kiss, she added mischievously, “or lover,” and gave herself up to his welcome weight.

 

Some time later, they fell asleep in earnest, tangled in a knot of tan and blue limbs and satisfied desire, awakening only from the safe comfort of their cocoon when it was no longer possible to ignore the intrusive knowledge that however time had elected to move within this room, it ticked along with unforgiving regularity outside of it.  With reluctance, they exerted themselves and rose, feeling the approach of Vector’s imminent departure, and as he retrieved their clothes from the floor, he sighed over the necessity – ironic, considering how hard he had worked to bring it about.

 

“The others will return soon,” he said ruefully, taking her hand as she finished fastening her jacket, “and another crisis will demand our attention.”

 

“I’m not done with you.  I’ll make sure we get another private moment – and soon,” Paha assured, with a smile that mingled promise and playfulness.  “Think of this as a sort of down payment: the interest will accrue while you are away.”

 

“Oh, yes, it will,” he confirmed.  “Although if we thought it would be difficult to concentrate _before_ …”  He trailed off with a meaningful look.

 

By the time the rest of the crew returned to the ship, Vector had gone, and Cipher set course for Dromund Kaas with the knowledge that her heart, pursuing him across the stars to Alderaan, would never be the same again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. When I tagged this with "Slow Build," I had no idea how prophetic that was going to be. 18 chapters to get them here? Damn.
> 
> 2\. Vector asking her to clear the ship? *squee* I replayed this scene a few times in order to check out the options - I wanted her to be able to acknowledge the effort he made but still confirm she preferred the Killik look. Unfortunately, I accidentally ended up with the "nice eyes" option because my cat chose an inconvenient time to sit on the space bar of my keyboard.
> 
> 3\. Another author confession corner: This is the first sex scene (as opposed to a fade-to-black) I have ever written. It took me over a week of writes, edits, and rewrites. I wanted a balance of emotional and sensual but without crossing a certain line, as good ol' pure smut would be out of place with the tone of the surrounding writing. Also, I swear, if I ever use any phrase that even approaches the ridiculousness of "turgid sword of manhood," then the _Lares_ and _Penates_ of my literary pantheon can stab me in the face. Anyway, I hope this is well-received.
> 
> 4\. Yes, I threw two overwrought, near-celibate, borderline-nervous wrecks into bed together and let them have magic perfect sex on the first try. I'm just not courageous enough to dodge the cliché. The Fairy of Realism on one shoulder kept objecting, "That doesn't even make sense!" while the Fairy of Escapist Literature on the other countered, "Nobody wants to read about bad sex; shut up and write!" The Realism Fairy doesn't win a lot of arguments.
> 
> 5\. It may be a little while before the next few chapters are posted: I'm leaving soon for a week of vacation in the mountains where there is no phone, television, or internet. Nothing to do but laze about, watch the leaves changing color over the lake, knit, and write. I won't be able to post, but also, I won't be able to check sources to refresh my memory of the plot and conversations, so the past day or so I've just been furiously transcribing from various YouTube vids and my own recordings to ensure I have the correct information to write from while I'm away - so I likely won't have chapter 19 up before I go.


	19. Friends Lost

Cipher Nine interlaced her fingers before her as she waited at the edge of the hangar bay on Vaiken Spacedock, hanging with solemn importance in the depths of space and surrounded by a contingent of the Imperial Fleet.  She gave every outward appearance of sedate composure, but with inward eager anticipation she watched the approaching shuttle extend its landing gear and alight on the hangar bay floor.  A handful of passengers trickled down the sloped ramp, and her gaze easily riveted to the sight of Vector as he strode across the space between them.  He stopped a meter away from her and inclined his head.

 

“Hello, Agent,” he greeted her with a calm demeanor she guessed was as much a false front as her own.  He looked pleased, but reserved, and she had difficulty telling whether those conditions were due to his return and the restraint imposed by the public place, or due to the summit and whatever its outcome had been.  In any event, he wasn’t despondent; his attitude suggested that there had been some degree of positive outcome.

 

The last time they had been apart for such a period of time was when he had made his pilgrimage in search of the Lost Colony, the quest that had, in the light of retrospect, been the wellspring of both their relationship and the Killik-Imperial treaty talks.  Then, he had left his hive home on Alderaan to benefit the nest.  Now he had come full circle, leaving the hive and the benefit he had worked to give them in order to return to the woman who made him feel at home anywhere in the galaxy, so long as she were with him.

 

“Hello, Vector,” she answered quietly.  “Welcome back.”  To a casual observer, it was a courteous and demure address; Vector, on the other hand, could hear hidden happiness coloring her aura, and the sound of something he interpreted as relief.  Not all, it seemed, had gone well in his absence.

 

“Thank you.  It is nice to be back,” he said, drawing a long breath and adding, a trifle unnecessarily, “The summit is over.”

 

“How did the talks go?” she asked as she led them to the bank of elevators to the main deck, heading for the one furthest away.

 

“Very well.  A great success, in fact,” he replied, and despite the general satisfaction of his tone, Cipher immediately sensed that wasn’t the whole story.  “But what of you?  How did matters go at Intelligence?”

 

“I wouldn’t describe it as ‘very well,’” Cipher answered as the elevator doors opened.  Judging from the signs of trouble hanging about her aura, that was something of an understatement.  She could not, of course, disclose details in so open and insecure a place.  “But,” she added, stepping into the elevator, “there is at least an indication of where to go next.”

 

“We look forward to your report,” he said, silently appreciating the wisdom in her selection of the furthest elevator, ignored by travelers and personnel except in times of high traffic.  As soon as the doors severed them from curious external eyes, she closed the distance between them swiftly with two steps that carried her into his waiting arms.

 

“My report is that I missed you,” said Paha affectionately, seizing these few precious seconds of privacy to present him with a more mutually satisfying welcome.  He was equally quick to capitalize on it, with the words barely flown from her lips before he had stilled them with an impatient and energetic kiss, and she made a little enthusiastic sound of appreciation that mingled in her zealous response.

 

When the elevator doors opened, they were standing politely side-by-side, all respect and decorum presented to the world – or at least, the spacedock. 

 

“We missed you also, Agent,” Vector replied sincerely.

 

They stepped out of the elevator and he fell into step beside her as she led them towards the vendor sector of the station’s main deck.

 

“Toovee is overseeing restocking of the _Phantom_ , and everyone else is,” she waved a hand by way of explanation, “…around.  I’ve dropped some gear off for repairs; should be ready by now.  So – tell me what happened at the summit.  I think you got a treaty in place?”

 

“We did,” Vector said, his tone impenetrable.  He decided to get the worst of the news out of the way first.  “It was not without incident.  Daizanna of the Iesei nest is dead.”

 

Paha was so shocked by the news that her footstep faltered as she froze, and he stopped a pace after and turned back to her.  The phrasing of it – _not without incident_ – and something in his tone strongly suggested that it hadn’t been a natural passing.

 

“Oh Vector,” she breathed, “I’m so sorry – how could such a violent thing have happened?”

 

“Falner Oeth,” Vector answered darkly.  “He attempted to sabotage the proceedings.  Daizanna was caught in an explosion saving an ambassador, and when we traced it to Falner, he had a… speech prepared.  He cursed us for wanting to ally the Empire with what he called ‘these creatures.’  It was captured on holo.”

 

“Let me see it,” Paha demanded, in a determined tone that would brook no argument.  They stepped aside out of the path of traffic, and Vector held out the holo, watching the cold fury leave frosty lines of ice through her aura as Oeth freely referred to the Killiks as abominations.

 

“Our Empire,” declared Oeth with pompous indignation, “is based on the notion that a great individual rises to the top, and the lesser masses follow.  The Killik hive mind devours greatness, absorbs every possibility into a mire of primal instinct.”

 

Paha made an angry noise of derision.  “He doesn’t understand, and never will.  He’s insane, and his behavior proves it.”

 

“We found his words troubling, and his actions more so,” Vector agreed.  “The Colony shares the Empire’s ideals – it only expresses them differently.  The Colony allows billions of Killiks and Joiners to serve something greater – the nest consciousness, just as Imperials serve the Emperor and the Sith.”

 

“You explained this to delegates, didn’t you?” Paha surmised.

 

“Yes,” Vector’s reply held a note of pride – pride in the Empire, pride in the Killik Colony, and pride in a plan seen to fruition through his own efforts.  “That is how we signed a treaty between the Empire and the Killiks.  Both sides will open their borders to trade.  Protocols will be set for military and diplomatic contact.”

 

“You did wonderful, Vector,” Paha said gently.  “You should be proud.”

 

“We are,” he affirmed.  “And we’re proud of you, for we could never have achieved this without you.  You, Daizanna – and yes, even Falner – all brought us to this point.”

 

Although they hadn’t been very close, some part of Paha found it difficult to consider that Daizanna, the vibrant, outgoing, and helpful woman of the Lost Colony, no longer was counted among the living – a casualty, independent of Republic and Empire, of Falner Oeth’s personal war of ambition and arrogance.  Vector could see the genuine sorrow in her tone as Paha said, “Daizanna – I think she would have been pleased to know that her actions saved the life of one of the ambassadors.  And for a Joiner to have rescued an Imperial delegate… how strange to think that Falner’s own plot may have been instrumental in securing the very alliance he was trying to destroy.”  She rested a comforting hand on Vector’s arm.  “I’m sorry.  I know you felt a connection to her.”

 

“We did,” he replied quietly.  “She was Dawn Herald, too.  But she will not be forgotten.  Her memory will be sung in the hive as that of a hero of the nests.”

 

“As it should be,” Paha agreed.  “I will never forget her, either.”  The taste of the membrosia that Daizanna had sent that had played a part in creating one of her most precious memories would ensure that.

 

Vector laid his hand on hers, turning it over and enclosing it within his own.  He had had some little time to adjust to the death of Daizanna, and he had raised his voice alongside those of the Killik delegates in the Song of the Survivors, the lament for the honored dead.  Through Vector’s carefully crafted mediation, Imperial representatives had been invited to observe from a respectful distance, and in this, too, Daizanna’s life and death had offered up one last purpose: the Imperials saw, first-hand, that the Killiks were not uncultured insects, nor mindless carbon copies, but that they, as surely as any of the delegates themselves, felt love and the loss of one of their own as just as keenly.  It demonstrated what Oeth persisted in failing to understand: that every individual of the hive was valued, and missed when removed.  The other delegates, either less obtuse or less hard-hearted than Oeth, saw what the Zabrak would not, and this understanding could not, and did not, fail to positively advance the treaty talks.  This, as much as the rituals of mourning among the Killiks, had bestowed on Vector an acceptance and sense of peace for Daizanna’s fate.

 

“That is all,” Vector said, offering Paha a serene smile.  “We have accomplished what we set out to do.  We end a verse in the Song of the Universe.  Soon we will hear another.”  His spirits rose as he looked at her compassionate face.  There was, indeed, a great deal in his life to be happy about, and, his dark eyes glittering as he brightened, he added meaningfully, “Our future is hopeful.”

 

Paha tightened her fingers around his.  “You’ll have a lot more time on your hands now,” she said, returning his smile with one of her own.  There was a certain suggestive note to its quality.  “What do you think you’ll do with it in that future of yours?”

 

“We have one or two ideas,” he replied roguishly.  “How long before the ship is ready for departure?”

 

\- - - -

 

“A repository for everything that crosses the holonet?” Vector repeated, turning his head towards her on the pillow in surprise.  “The power to maintain such a thing must be considerable.”

 

“It’s called the Tytun Rings,” Paha explained, nestling herself in the curve of his arm.  “A bunch of derelict ships, converted to floating databanks around the Tytun Four moon, built by some eccentric with too much money and curiosity on his hands.  Staffed by droids, and protected by some pretty heavy-duty firepower, of the mercenary kind.”

 

“So, the usual easy entrance.  We’re guessing that didn’t slow, let alone stop, you,” he said in an amused voice.

 

“Ah, how well you know me,” she replied with a short laugh.  He sensed the deception in it, however, the veneer of calm over an undefined concern.  She had compartmentalized it, putting it away in favor of focusing her attention on him, but it hadn’t vanished, lurking small and sad in the distance of her aura.

 

“What is it that you aren’t telling us?” he asked gravely, his voice low beside her ear.  “It was not so easy as you let on?”

 

“No, it was fine.  I went in prepared.  Temple was good back up – great, even; she’s doing very well,” Paha said, sighing a little over her failure to keep her professional anxieties from coloring her private activities.  “And Keeper had been upfront about the danger; Cipher Eight was killed in the last infiltration there.  I knew what I was walking into.”

 

Vector’s arm tightened reflexively around her naked torso, but he knew that was not the source of her trouble.  It wasn’t part of her nature to conjure fears about enemies past.

 

“Watchers Six, Seven, and Nine were able to piece together the fragments of the holoconference I recovered,” Paha continued, “and at Intelligence headquarters we were able to finally see the faces of the Star Cabal.  Heard their voices – their concerns about the risk of their plans.  But the recording was trapped.  I don’t know if we were set up to find the recording, or if it was trapped as a matter of their standard precautions.”

 

“What sort of trap?”  To Vector’s senses, Paha seemed as hale and well as she had been when he left her for the summit.  Whatever damage the trap had caused, she seemed to have escaped it.

 

“It was some kind of hidden overlay, designed for genetically enhanced minds.”

 

“Such as the sort at Imperial Intelligence.”

 

“Just so.  Vector – Watchers Six, Seven, and Nine are on life support.”  Paha’s voice frayed at its edges.  “And so is Keeper.  I think it was designed to kill them.  As they are now… it might as well have.”

 

In a terrible way, the loss of Daizanna was almost easier to bear.  Her death was punctuated as a finality, and despite Oeth’s senseless barbarism, Vector had made his peace with it, taking solace that her last acts had been to preserve and ensure the future of the alliance talks.  In contrast, Keeper’s condition held the specter of an awful suspension between hope and the forlorn lack of it, where there was promise of neither the return of life, nor the serenity of rest, just a precarious half-death in perpetuity, all thanks to the Star Cabal’s galaxy-destroying ambitions. 

 

“Paha,” Vector murmured, wrapping his other arm around her, hugging her close, “we are so sorry to hear of this.  We know you think of Keeper as your friend… you have worked together a long time.  We have seen Keeper’s strength of will.  She will pull through.”

 

“I know they are doing everything they can,” she answered, rallying her resolution.  “As we must, too.  We’re on our own now, Vector.  Watcher Three has his hands full, trying to fill in for Keeper, run war operations, and provide information to all the field agents that were working with the Watchers – all while maintaining the strictest confidentiality around Keeper’s condition.  Whatever is next, we’re going into it unsupported.”

 

He gently turned her in his embrace, setting her back against his chest and curling himself protectively around her, as though his arms, knotted with hers across her ribs and breasts, could insulate her from the strains and discord of the broader galaxy.  “We will manage,” he consoled comfortingly.  “Together.  And we’ll be with you every step of the way.”

 

\- - - -

 

Watcher Three, harried and with deep circles beneath his eyes, sent them their next lead, based on indistinct notes from Keeper, scraped together from scraps of information gleaned from Scorpio’s massive datashare.  He had no direction or reasoning for the connection, only that Keeper had been scrutinizing files regarding the planet Voss, a small planet on the border of Imperial and Hutt space, neutral by virtue of its having been ignored by Empire and Republic alike for most of its existence.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m not as good as Keeper,” he apologized sincerely, exhaustion and frustration deepening the lines on his dark brown face.  “Things are a bit… chaotic here, without Keeper, so it will take some time to pull our files on Voss.  Actually, Cipher, you already have someone more familiar.”  Three nodded to Vector standing nearby, and Cipher turned her head in small surprise.

 

“I didn’t realize we had an expert on board,” she observed.

 

“The Diplomatic Service has more experience with Voss than anyone.  Certainly more than me,” admitted Three.

 

Vector bowed slightly at the compliment, and explained, “We never served on Voss personally, but we think we can brief you.  It’s a newly discovered world, home to a simple, humanoid civilization.  One species, one government, one city – Voss-Ka.”

 

“Primitive,” interjected Three.  “They didn’t even have spaceflight when we made first contact.”

 

“But they have art and laws and culture,” Vector pointed out.   “More importantly, they have citizens who can use the Force – not Jedi or Sith, but something different – Healers and fortune-tellers they call Mystics.   Their whole culture is based on solidarity, loyalty, and obedience to family and to the edicts of the Mystics.”

 

“I begin to see why there is so much importance attached to a sub-spaceflight people,” Cipher frowned thoughtfully.

 

“We want the Voss and the Mystics to ally with the Empire,” concurred Vector.  “The Republic is petitioning them, too, yet they remain stubbornly neutral.”

 

“Of course, half the galaxy has spies there.  Who wouldn’t?” asked Three rhetorically, raising his open palms in a gesture of obviousness.  “Keeper’s files clearly indicate conspirator involvement, but no names or details.  All we’ve got are instructions for a meet.  There’s a teahouse in Voss-Ka proper.  You’re supposed to wait for a contact – he’ll identify himself with the phrase ‘anew as the spring.’  I don’t know who he is, or whether Keeper told him about the Star Cabal, but he’ll know more than I do.”

 

“Assuming he’s in one piece.  That the Star Cabal hasn’t gotten to him first,” cautioned Vector.

 

Three nodded.  “Assuming that.  Watcher Three out.”

 

Three’s image had barely vanished when the holo chirped again, displaying the perpetually irritating form of Hunter.  Cipher folded her arms and prepared herself to be annoyed.

 

“Hope you don’t mind my checking in, Cipher,” he smirked.  “You weren’t expecting any other calls, were you?  I’d hate to tie up your line.”

 

“Hello, Hunter, my good friend,” Cipher pasted a fake smile across her face.  “What do you want?”

 

“Your visit to Megasecurity Ward 23 left it in bad shape.  Now, do I come into your house and break your things?” he asked.  Cipher didn’t bother telling him that that was, in fact, her opinion of exactly what he seemed to enjoy doing most; clearly, he wasn’t expecting a real answer.  He continued, “But you finding that holotrap, frying your Keeper’s synapses – that’s kind of cosmic justice.”

 

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Cipher replied flatly, knowing full well Hunter could see through the lie.

 

“Of course,” Hunter smirked.  “Cipher, it’s been fun, playing tag, brainwashing you – remember your keyword?  But you keep coming, and we’ll destroy your world.  No friends, no allies, no Empire left to fight for.  Are you ready for that?”

 

“What I am ready for isn’t really your concern, so I can’t see why you worry about it, or me.”

 

“But who else can I whisper sweet things to?” he asked with an insinuating look.  “Do you know what it’s like to have no identity?  No one in the galaxy who can control you?  It’s terrifying and wonderful.  If you live to see Imperial Intelligence die, that’s me giving you a taste of freedom.”

 

Hunter threw her a mocking salute, and Cipher muttered something under her breath as the holo went dark.

 

“What was that?” asked Vector curiously, warily eyeing the fumes of outrage that curled from her in thorned tendrils.

 

“Hunter being an ass, as usual,” Cipher scowled, fixing a baleful glare at the empty space over the holoterminal.

 

“Yes,” agreed Vector, “but we meant the other thing.  The bit at the end.”

 

“Oh.  That?” Cipher belatedly considered her words and her anger, and covered by feigning guiltless nonchalance.  “Just a Chiss expression, that’s all.”

 

“We are curious to know more about your language,” Vector said, intrigued at the façade of ingenuous innocence.  “We recall we hoped to hear you speak more of it.  Would you translate?”

 

“Erh,” she stalled, “it… it wasn’t very polite.”

 

“With our project of the alliance completed, we have been considering writing a monograph on swearing amongst different cultures,” he answered with creditable guilelessness.  “We have Kaliyo’s talent for an elegant turn of phrase to thank for the idea.  We would welcome an addition in Chenuh.”

 

“You are _not_ ,” she declared, strongly suspecting he was poking fun at her.  He could deliver a line in a truly incredible deadpan manner when he wanted to.  She equivocated again.  “You don’t want to know.  It isn’t ladylike.  It will ruin your good opinion of me forever.”

 

“We have been convinced for quite some time that, like the word ‘fragile,’ the word ‘lady’ doesn’t apply to you,” he pressed, his mouth quirking in a manner that made her think he was suppressing a cheeky grin.  Now she was positive he was teasing her.  “And our opinion is secure.”

 

“Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Cipher returned, throwing up her hands in a gesture of surrender.  “First, Chenuh is a very… _expressive_ language.  It’s quite complex, because it is highly nuanced.  Second, you have to understand the concept of family is a critical part of Chiss society; the family unit is the basis of Chiss values.  Aspersions based on family relationships is pretty much the height of rudeness.”

 

“We understand this much already.  And we suspect you are stalling,” Vector said, reminding her of how she had once described him as relentless.  “We won’t let you off so easily.”

 

Running low on prevarications, Cipher caved.  “Okay, okay,” she conceded, folding her arms.  “In the most civil terms, I insinuated that his maternal progenitor didn’t beget him on his father…”

 

“That’s hardly an unusual insult.”

 

“…but instead on a sun-warmed six-day-old pile of nerf feculence.  And she enjoyed it.”

 

“That, on the other hand, _is_.”  Vector cast her a sidelong glance, trying to gauge if she were drawing him in with a ruse to exact some payback for his teasing, and for all he could see, she wasn’t kidding.  “Six days?  That’s impressively specific.”

 

“I told you Chenuh was nuanced.”

 

“ _And_ expressive,” Vector added.  “We have seen nerf herds on Alderaan.  Smelled them, too.  We can… appreciate the insult.  It manages to hit upon nearly every benchmark of common offense: parentage, sexual preference, scatology, bestiality, illegitimacy, cuckoldry...  Perhaps we will write that treatise on profanities after all.”

 

He sounded so thoughtful and serious about the topic that Cipher couldn’t help but laugh, and she suddenly understood as he gave her a smile, adding, “That’s better.”

 

“Alright, yes, I _know_ I let Hunter get to me,” Cipher answered, shrugging her shoulders at the memory of her recently-faded anger.  “I can’t shake the feeling that he manages to come out on top in every conversation, with those little quips of his.  He always has a smart remark, even if I say nothing.  It’s stupid, but I sometimes think that if I can’t beat him in a simple conversation, then I won’t be able to beat him in a real fight.  I know it’s not even close to the same thing, and I know that he’s only doing this to get to me – and I’m the only one letting him succeed.”

 

“Correct on all counts, except for one,” replied Vector.  “You _will_ beat him.  You already see through his psychological tricks.  Every time he contacts you to rattle you, it is because he knows your net is closing around him.”  Vector put his head to one side, pondering, and added, “Strangely enough, Agent, we get the sense that he likes you.”

 

Cipher started at that, giving him a faintly alarmed look.

 

“At least, he respects you,” Vector clarified.  “Your skills, your tenacity.  We don’t think it’s difficult to see why.”

 

“Just what I’ve always wanted,” Cipher replied stonily.  “An untraceable psychotic stalker.  How does a girl get so lucky?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I'm back from my vacation (obviously), which was great: beautiful weather, amazing fall foliage, and nothing to do but relax all day. I finished reading Samuel Richardson's "Clarissa: A History of a Lady" which has the distinction of being, at about 985,000 words, the longest novel in the English language. The only novels that are longer are Arno Schmitt's 1.1 million word "Zettels Traum" in German and Marcel Proust's 1.25 million word French work "A la Recherche du Temps Perdu." When I wasn't reading, knitting, or feeding chipmunks peanuts from my hand, I was writing, and although I have no intent of spinning this out to 900,000 words, I did hit the 100,000 milepost, in spite of how often i went back and cut down more and more and more out of three chapters ssp of the Voss stuff. I still feel like I should cut more.
> 
> 2) This is kind of a set-up or transitory chapter, to ease out of the last one and into Voss, so it's sparse on action and heavy on exposition.


	20. A Mystic's Trials

The city of Voss-Ka perched on the leveled terraces of a multi-peaked mountain, interconnected by bridges, large and small, that arched gracefully over the gorges and ravines separating the neighborhoods.  Autumn had come to Voss-Ka, all ochre and umber with flashes of russet, and the scent of falling leaves and aging grass floated on chilly breezes that sifted lightly through the half-warmed air.  The teahouse, a cylindrical building of sturdy, round elegance, was easily located near the market, on the fringes of the region of the city where outsiders were permitted to move about freely. 

 

At the personal level, the Voss appeared to be as insular as they were at the municipal and interplanetary levels: cautious of outsiders, wary to forge even superficial relationships with them, and desirous of maintaining a certain distance between.  Just as they limited their contact with the galaxy at large, contact within Voss-Ka was limited to a market district and government buildings, leaving the Voss within the residential areas free from interference from all but the most enterprising and adept impersonators.  This made the teahouse of Bas-Ton all the more interesting.

 

In the first place, she was met at the door by a surprisingly eager young man with skin patterned in bright teal and yellow stripes, who bid her welcome with an unexpected openness.  But then, Cipher reflected, a teahouse that catered to outsiders could hardly benefit from a sullen staff.

 

“Yana-Ton,” the young man turned to a nearby girl, red-skinned and purple-striped, “remove incense for comfort.  Pour the simple teas.  We’re honored.”

 

His effusive welcome was interrupted by an older man, with a deep voice.  “Don’t burden the woman, Phi-Ton.”

 

“She looked unburdened,” Phi-Ton objected.

 

The older of the two turned his attention to Cipher.  “I am Bas-Ton; this is my teahouse.  Forgive my son; may we start anew as the spring.”

 

Without batting an eyelash, Cipher returned the civilities.  “Thank you, Bas-Ton.  Your welcome is very gracious.”

 

Phi-Ton seemed to take it as a personal compliment, or perhaps he simply sought, like so many chafing under a parental yoke, to nettle his father slightly.  “Thank you,” he replied.

 

Bas-Ton shooed his son away.  “Host the others.  This woman is a friend of a good friend.  I will share her time.”

 

Satisfied that there was no danger here, or at least no danger that was beyond Cipher’s ability to handle, Vector gave her a nod from the doorway and slipped back out into the city, intending, by prior arrangement, to collect as much information as possible on the physical, cultural, and political layout of Voss-Ka and its interesting people.  Cipher, her curiosity piqued, followed Bas-Ton to a table in a sheltered corner.

 

“Don’t worry,” Bas-Ton said in a tone quite unlike the rhythmic precision that seemed to mark most Voss speech, “the family won’t bother us, and no one else suspects.  Living with these creatures for five years earns some credibility.”

 

 _These creatures_.  Apparently, five years earned credibility, but didn’t pay much in the way of respect.  Cipher covered her offended sensibilities with a glib observation.  “The Voss seem to have their eccentricities, maybe, but so does anyone else.”

 

“You would say that – but even your people appreciate culture,” Bas-Ton answered pompously.  Cipher was on the verge of deciding that she did not particularly like Bas-Ton – or whoever he really was – but it wasn’t necessary to like an asset in order to trust information from one.  She gestured for him to continue.

 

“Our employers surgically altered me to look like the real Bas-Ton.  The only way to infiltrate a closed society.  I got to know my family, raise children, kiss my wife…” Bas-Ton said neutrally.  “I don’t care how exotic they look, their breath always smells like mynock dung.  It’s some spice in the blasted food.”

 

A wife, children, property, and his own business to run.  A place to belong.  As undercover assignments went, it could have been a lot worse.  Some people would have envied him the things he had been so liberally granted, and which he instead so liberally despised.  On the other hand, Cipher reminded herself, he’d had to pretend to be someone he was not for five years.  How long had it taken him to stop being shocked at the orange and yellow honeycombed eyes that stared back at him from the mirror every morning?  And if the cosmetic surgery were reversed, how long would it be for him to recognize himself again?  Did he struggle to remember what he had been like, long ago, before he had assumed this role?  Was it still a role now?  Or did the role, one day, become real?

 

They were pointless questions, and irrelevant to boot.  “Aside from their breath,” Cipher asked, doing her best to mask her sarcasm, “is there anything else you’ve noted?”

 

“I know their tics and their customs – more about their tea than I thought possible.  Problem is,” Bas-Ton reflected, “they’re stagnant.  A teahouse owner is a teahouse owner for life; the real politics are above my station.”

 

“Not bad, however, as a cover,” Cipher opined.  Funny, that in this society, social mobility was apparently unheard-of, regardless of talent.  Being skilled was no stepping stone to advancement.  And yet here this society was being assiduously courted by the Diplomatic Service.  What would Falner Oeth have had to say about that?  “But if I want to get involved in the real politics…?”

 

Bas-Ton leaned forward in his chair, setting his elbow on the table.  “They say the Three run the government, and it’s true, althougha word from the Mystics can change everything.  That aside, my orders were to find you a lead on Albathius, a human who showed up a few years ago.  The Voss called him the ‘Shining Man.’  Where he came from is a mystery, but it only took him five weeks to go from outsider to practically Voss.  Went through a dozen rites to earn their respect, knew their culture inside and out, knew their politics… textbook infiltration, impossibly perfect.”

 

“A miracle worker at his craft,” commented Cipher with a sardonic tone in her voice.  “How well I know the type.  What else about him?  What was he aiming at?”

 

“Other people have tried what he did, going through Voss initiations.  A best, they got a pat on the head, like a pet learning a trick.  The Shining Man was something different.  The Voss believed in him, and he played them perfect,” Bas-Ton gave a one-shouldered shrug.  “Then he died, peacefully.”

 

“Died?  Just like that?”

 

“And buried with honors.  No one’s touched the case much since, so if you want to learn what the Shining Man was up to, you’ve got a nasty job.  Start with the tomb.  It’s at the base of the mountain, holiest place a non-Voss can be interred.  Predators keep the area clear these days.  It will be best if you blend in, so you’ll want to go in as a pilgrim, I’ve left clothes and instructions at a dead drop.  Give me a call from there.”

 

\- - - -

 

“That’s the long and short of it,” Cipher finished her summary to Vector as they worked their way down the steep path to the foot of the mountain and Bas-Ton’s cache of supplies.  “What did you find out?”

 

Vector reported his survey of the city, including the location of the tiny sector allotted for Republic use, with its ambassador in residence, Sophia Faresh.

 

“Ever met her before, or know anyone in the Diplomatic Service who has?”

 

“No,” Vector replied.  “We know very little about her, other than that she has stressed to Republic visitors that they avoid anything that might be considered a ‘diplomatic incident.’  There is rumor that she is expecting the arrival of a Jedi Master any day now.”

 

“Wonderful,” Cipher said, in a tone that indicated she thought, in fact, the exact opposite.  “I can only hope that we either be done and gone before this Jedi arrives, or that we fly sufficiently low enough that we stay off the radar.  What kind of pull does this Faresh have with the Three?”

 

“From what we could gather, about the same amount as the Imperial ambassador, which is to say,” Vector added, “essentially none.  The Three are content to entertain discussion from either side, without appearing to give encouragement to either.”

 

“And the Three,” mused Cipher, “hold all the political power.  They must have a cabinet – advisors, ministers, some other politicos that oversee various aspects?”

 

“If they do, we did not hear of it.  Only the Mystics,” Vector answered.  Cipher shot him a questioning glance.  Bas-Ton had mentioned that a Mystic – any Mystic – had the power to change the course of Voss history, but Cipher, doubting and more intent on her mission, hadn’t followed up on it.  What gave a Mystic that much influence?  Vector saw her inquisitive look and elaborated.  “From every mouth we heard the same tune: a Mystic’s vision is never wrong.  Through the Force, they view the future, not as they wish it to be, nor as a possibility, but as a certainty.”

 

“Wait,” Cipher said, pulling up abruptly.  “You mean that what the Mystics see actually will happen?  Absolutely?”

 

“Yes,” Vector answered stopping a step in front of her and looking back.  “Agent… we know that look.  That look when you start… _connecting_ things.  Just what is it you are thinking?”

 

“How, exactly, does one become a Mystic?” Cipher asked, waving Vector’s question momentarily.

 

“A Voss undergoes a series of trials at a shrine.”

 

“A _Voss_ ,” Cipher repeated, seriously.  “Bas-Ton said that outsiders have sometimes participated in Voss rituals.  Would the Voss permit an outsider to undertake the Mystic trials?”

 

“We don’t know,” Vector answered.  “But you are not Voss; how could you be granted a vision?”

 

“I’ve already had one,” Cipher replied solemnly.  “If I could somehow have another – something to give me an indication, just a hint, of what is to occur –”

 

“We prefer not knowing,” Vector said gravely.  “To know too much about our own future – to live always waiting for the moment some coming sword falls upon us – we prefer to live in the happiness of the present and our hopes for, not knowledge of, our days to come.”

 

“But the prediction might not be bad,” objected Cipher.  “It might not be a vision like – like what I saw once before.  It might be a vision of victory.  Triumph.  Happiness.  Anything.”

 

“And it might not be related to Hunter at all,” Vector pointed out pragmatically.  “How often were you cut by your earlier knowledge?  How might it cut you now?”

 

Cipher bowed her head, unable to deny how much her eerie dream had cost her, how she had let her obsession with it rule her, even to the point where she had been prepared to die because of it.  Why would she repeat that?  And yet, in spite of that, she could not either deny the covetous restlessness that seized her at the prospect of learning something – anything – about what lay ahead.  It was almost as if the thrill and fear of a prophecied future held some hidden addiction.

 

“And that is even _if_ you are permitted to take the trials,” Vector broke into her thoughts, “and _if_ you are granted a vision at the end of them.”

 

“True enough,” Cipher conceded, setting her footsteps down the path again.  The pull of her curiosity was too strong when she found she didn’t want to make more than a feeble struggle against it.  “If they forbid me, then I’ll accept that and move on.  But if they _don’t_ … if I get the chance, Vector, I’m going to try it.”

 

\- - - -

 

Bas-Ton’s dead drop consisted of a few articles of clothing – a Voss pilgrim’s outfit, Bas-Ton explained – and instructions to collect ceremonial offerings along the path to the Shining Man’s tomb.  The tomb itself was a vast chamber, with a raised dais in the center, on top of which rested a stone sarcophagus, carved over with the tribal patterns of the Voss.

 

“We toured the tombs of Pengalan, but they were nothing like this,” Vector observed, craning his head to take in the ornate symbols.  “And all built for a lie – a conspirator…”

 

“Which should make you feel somewhat better about the notion that we’re about to desecrate his grave,” Cipher answered wryly.  “Our good fortune that there are no other pilgrims today.”

 

Jamming pry-bars beneath the lid, she and Vector heaved against the stone tablet until it shifted aside to reveal its contents.  Mentally preparing herself for a ghastly sight, Cipher leaned over the edge, then stepped back in surprise, promptly pulling out her holo.

 

“Bas-Ton,” she hailed.  “Nothing in the sarcophagus but dust and a scroll.”

 

“Dust?” questioned Bas-Ton incredulously.  “No way the body decayed that fast on its own.  Send me a high-res image and bring the scroll back – dust sample, too.  We’ll see what analysis turns up.”

 

\- - - -

 

It was evening when they finished the climb back into Voss-Ka, and Phi-Ton’s welcome was as eager and effervescent as it had been the first time around, and he seconded Bas-Ton’s invitation that Cipher stay for dinner.  For all that Bas-Ton seemed exasperated with his supposed son’s enthusiasm, Cipher found the family to be, on the whole, a pleasant one, with high spirits and genial conversation.  There were worse places to be undercover, indeed.  The food, even, wasn’t bad; the spices in Voss cooking, at least, were more palatable to her taste than the spices of Mirialan cuisine.

 

“I appreciate you putting up with that,” Bas-Ton apologized unnecessarily after the door closed behind Phi-Ton, the last of the family to retire.  “Let’s get to work.  I’ll send the ashes for analysis, but I’m more interested in the scroll.  It’s sort of an epitaph – calls the Shining Man a ‘man of prophecy’ who was ‘made whole in the Wellspring of the Shrine of Healing.’”

 

“A ‘man of prophecy?’  As in, he gave prophecies like a Mystic, or was it that he was the subject of one?” asked Cipher.  Despite her recent wish to be party to another prophetic vision, she was aware that the trouble with visions – her own included – was that they were subject to interpretation, and while a vision might be infallibly true, its interpretation might not be equally so.

 

Bas-Ton frowned thoughtfully.  “Either.  Both.  I’m not sure.  The Mystics have a whole library of prophecies.  The rest of the Voss revere the Mystics because their prophecies are always right.  If the Mystics prophesized the Shining Man’s arrival, it would explain why the Voss accepted him so easily.  It’s awfully convenient, though.”

 

“ _Too_ convenient,” Cipher agreed.  “How tough would it be to fake a prophecy?  Or could he have learned of a prophecy and worked out a way to ensure he fit it?  How do these Mystics operate, exactly?”

 

“Influential as the Dark Council, reclusive as the Jedi Masters,” replied Bas-Ton.  “We common folk don’t brush elbows with them often, you can imagine.   About the second part, though – ‘made whole in the Wellspring of the Shrine…’  The Shrine of Healing is a Mystic sanctuary where people go to be cured; the sick, and dying, or the ‘spiritually wounded.’  Only a handful of pilgrims manage to complete trek each year.”

 

“You make it sound like a death march,” Cipher said, faintly shocked.  “I hope you mean that the Mystics-in-training are the ones who make this pilgrimage, and they don’t expect it of the injured and ill.”

 

 “The Mystics don’t seem to mind the rocks and the animals and the Gormak,” Bas-Ton shrugged as he referred to the technologically-adept tribal warriors who lived in the wilds beyond Voss-Ka.  “At any rate, I’d guess if the Shining Man was at the Shrine of Healing, it wasn’t for spiritual reasons.  There’s a pilgrimage camp not far from Voss-Ka.  One of the guides there can help you reach the shrine and the Wellspring.  My advice, if you’ll take it – play by the Mystics’ rules.  It’s not wise to defy the order of things.”

 

\- - - -

 

Cipher stepped over the threshold into the Mystics’ Shrine of Healing with a tread that conveyed somewhat more assurance than she felt.  She was used to being an outsider – she had been one for almost her entire life – but the comfort of that status meant that she didn’t need to make an effort to either sustain or combat it.  Since she knew she would never be wholly accepted, she had never had to concern herself with obedience to the ethics and practices embraced by any culture.  It was a little late now to begin wishing she had more practice at it.

 

Nonetheless, she presented herself respectfully to the Voss commando who stood guard at the entrance to the Mystic trials.  Who would have expected that the Shrine of Healing and the location of the Mystic’s trials would be one and the same?  It struck her as rather bizarrely efficient.

 

The guard was surprised, and both curt and cold in response to her request, but ultimately, he stood aside and let her pass, and neither did he bar Vector from following.  Evidently, she observed inwardly, it was not against the rules to be assisted by an associate.  What she would not give, however, to be better prepared!  But all of Vector’s inquiries, either subtle or direct, on the subject had met with the same frustrating answer: no one really knew what went on in a Mystic’s trials, only the Mystics themselves – and they weren’t giving up any clues.

 

The Mystic who met them was either better mannered than his colleague, or had sufficient advance notice to cover his surprise.  Giving them merely a cursory glance with his yellow and orange speckled eyes, he waved them through with the instruction to meditate at the altar at the corner of the room.  Vector, interest heightening his senses, gave equal attention to their surroundings as he did the anticipation and nervousness that flickered flame-like through Cipher’s aura as she knelt before the stone table.

 

He was startled as she raised her head – he had not seen the room change, and yet change it had, as though every object had attained an aura of its own, while hers had flared into a vibrancy and depth he had never before been able to see, like a wave of intensity had washed over it, super-saturating it with the quintessence of everything he had ever seen before.

 

“A spirit world?” Cipher questioned softly, and he knew that however it appeared to her, this scene did not appear to her normal vision any more than it did to his own eyes. 

 

Before them stood a half circle of gleaming beings, their features indistinct in the brightness of piercing yellow light, and they stepped forward in turn to demand answers to questions they posed to her.  What would she answer?  How would she respond?  Vector wondered, and then, more nervously, what if she answered incorrectly?

 

His fear was unfounded as Cipher faced her jury and replied in a strong voice to each problem presented.  “All the answers are there in Voss culture,” Cipher mused.  “A Mystic’s vision is never wrong.  It must be accepted as true.  But a Mystic only gives the vision; a Mystic does not interpret the vision.”

 

“A Mystic must know his role,” intoned the glowing figures.  “You understand.  Go forward.  Corruption lies ahead; destroy the source.”

 

“That was well done,” Vector commented in a low voice at her shoulder as they passed on through the door indicated.  “We did not realize how much you understood of the Voss.”

 

“I’m still not sure I do,” she confessed.  “I feel like I’m feeling my way a bit blindly through this.”

 

“It appears to be working.  But destroy the source of corruption?” Vector wondered.

 

“I think it means we have a fight on our hands next,” Cipher said.  “I don’t suppose it ever occurred to Imperial Intelligence to determine if sniper rifles function during spirit walks.”

 

“No time like the present to find out,” answered Vector.  “For that beast ahead appears to be the corruption we’re supposed to destroy.”

 

The great beast fell by their hands – Cipher was relieved to find that her rifle, did, in some capacity, function here – and the lives of the creatures they slew served to balance lives healed and saved in the room just beyond.  There remained but one trial left, introduced by the spirit form of woman Mystic, who commanded that a Mystic must know the enemy of the Voss.

 

“The Gormak,” Cipher answered directly, and in the place where the Mystic stood there arose a massive Gormak warrior.  He soon lay stretched across the floor, slain by Cipher and Vector’s efficient skill, and the door they passed through next disgorged them from the spirit world.  It was an abrupt and dizzying strike to their senses, and Cipher shaded her eyes a moment, trying to accustom them to the dim temple light after the bright glow of the scenes she had just witnessed.  Before them stood the Mystic from the final chamber, beside a massive stone tablet.

 

“Crude, but effective,” she assessed, her tone rather cold and impassive.  “I am Magra-Su.  All potentials must face me.  The trials are dangerous.  I meet more corpses than men.”

 

“To survive a Mystic’s trials, you need to think like one,” Cipher replied respectfully.

 

“Few are capable,” Magra-Su said, and for all the cool dispassion of her voice, Cipher wasn’t certain that there wasn’t an element of grudging respect hidden beneath it.  “The Mystics guide the Voss.  The trials teach them how.  A Mystic must know his role.  You understand. This is the first trial.  Focus and meditation, the second.  Killing and balance, the third.  Only one with a Mystics understanding can defeat the Gormak.  You have passed.”

 

Cipher bowed.  “I am honored to have the chance.”

 

“The true honor comes now.  The trials bring clarity,” said Magra-Su.  “A Mystic’s power is awakened.  You have learned to see.  A vision will be granted.”

 

“Even though I am not a Mystic, I am ready to accept it,” Cipher answered.  “What must I do?”

 

“You remain an outsider.  Your thoughts are brief, unfocused,” the Mystic returned somewhat harshly.  “I will see.  You will tell me where to look.  Look upon the ancient tablets.  A vision will come.  Focus.  Your vision will come.”

 

 _You will tell me where to look_ , Cipher repeated to herself as she eagerly drilled her eyes into the patterns of the tablet.  _Show me_ , she prayed silently, _show me Hunter.  Show me that I face him at last._ The patterns seemed to shift and slide under her gaze, eluding her grasp. _Show me our final confrontation._ She felt the tablet stretch towards her, reaching tendrils of living stone into her mind, bending it in unnatural and sickening ways. _Show me._ She pushed away a wave of dizziness. _Show me!_

 

Hunter, glowing as though he, too, were part of the spirit world, stood before her, and she felt an itch in her hands, an automatic desire to reach for her rifle, but she knew without trying that her arms were rooted at her sides.  This was a vision – not something she could touch.  Or shoot, or strangle.

 

“It’s your responsibility now,” said Hunter, his voice oddly quiet, and Cipher was at a loss to pick the word that best described it.  Gentle?  Tired?  Resigned?  Serene?  “Everything we built.  Everything we hid from you.  You’re the only one like us left.  You’ll take good care of it… but between you and me, I want to show you one last thing.”

 

She might not be able to touch the incorporeal sight of Hunter, but she could at least speak.

 

“’Only one left?’” she repeated.  “Does that mean I’m going to win?

 

“That depends,” Hunter replied, with something like his old effrontery.  “How much are you willing to sacrifice and still call it a victory?”

 

In the same wink of an instant, Hunter vanished and Cipher awoke, utterly disoriented, and it was not until Magra-Su spoke, somewhere over her head, that she realized she was laying on the floor.  She had not even known she had collapsed.  Vector’s concerned face came into focus beside her.

 

“The vision is over.  You have seen what comes,” the aging Mystic said, utterly unconcerned at Cipher’s inability to handle the influx of information that had flooded her brain.

 

“It didn’t make a whole lot of sense,” Cipher admitted, grasping Vector’s offered hand and rising to her feet.  “I’m not sure I understood it.”

 

“A Mystics role is to see.  I do not interpret,” Magra-Su answered impatiently, as if speaking to a particularly backward child.  “A Mystic sees.  The Voss respond.  The trials have ended.  Leave now.”

 

Cipher decorously waited until they had left Magra-Su and her tablet two rooms behind them before she muttered, “I wasn’t _asking_ for an interpretation of the vision, just stating that I didn’t _understand_ it.”

 

“It is certainly open-ended,” Vector said thoughtfully after she had described, with meticulous attention to the specific wording, Hunter’s message.  “What do you intend to do about it?”

 

“For now?  Not a thing,” Cipher said.

 

“After all that effort?”

 

“I don’t get that awful feeling of dread from it that I had from my dream,” she explained.  “So right now, it is enough to know that it is somewhere in my future.  I don’t need more than that.  Someone very wise once told me that it wasn’t good to know too much about one’s future.  To live in the present, and hope for the future – that was best.  I’ve come to decide that he may very well be right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Initially I did the Mystic trials in order to get the datacron in the middle of the great hall in the Shrine of Healing, but once I realized it would also include a glimpse of a future conversation, it's become a side-quest I've personally required of all my characters. With Paha's backstory, it was just too perfect that she would latch onto the chance to learn anything she could about Hunter, their approaching confrontation, and her own strange experiences with prophetic visions. She doesn't like unsolved mysteries. The downside; this adds a lot of length and I'm not sure it isn't all just fluff, even after I edited it down severely from its original form. I'm finding this is the hazard with having recordings of all the in-game conversations: it leads me to report details that might be better glossed over or summed up in a much more concise or straight-forward manner.


	21. Strength

The Shrine of Healing was outfitted with a simple but tolerably comfortable hostel of accommodations for guests and benighted travellers, and Cipher and Vector were conveyed to a pair of cell-like rooms, each set up with narrow cots and basic amenities for their use in the evening after their journey through the Voss spirit world. The trip had been more tiring than Cipher had expected, or perhaps it was merely the after-effects of the disorientation that had resulted from the post-trials vision, but she made no objection when Vector proposed restarting her quest only after she had a decent rest. 

 

Despite Vector's advice and her own best intentions, however, she lay awake in the dark for hours, turning Hunter's words over and over in her mind in hopes they would reveal his secrets, and wondering if the tons of massive stone over their heads felt as tomb-like to Vector as they did to her, pressing down on her invisibly in the dark. For a place that was ostensibly a place of healing, it certainly loaned itself to morbid thoughts. Perhaps, Cipher pondered, it was necessary to hold the trials here in order for the spirits harvested within it to be used to fuel the healing that happened here as well. When Cipher fell asleep at last, her last ideas were that balance wasn't necessarily all it might be cracked up to be.

 

The following morning, Cipher led the way to the lower level of the Shrine of Healing, to the entrance of the Wellspring, pointed out helpfully by a passer-by.  A young acolyte met them at the entrance, his hands folded respectfully before him.

 

“You have faced the trials, outsider,” he greeted them. Word, apparently, traveled very fast.  “But the Wellspring is for the broken.”

 

“I have come to consult with your masters,” Cipher offered.

 

“The Mystics tend the Wellspring.  The Mystics make bodies and minds whole,” protested the acolyte.  “I disturb them for nothing less.”

 

Cipher stifled a sigh.  She had considered it might come to this, and she made an abrupt resolution, casting a glance at Vector that she hoped he would correctly interpret as an apologetic one.  Her aura blended truth and lie, half-veracity and partial fiction, in a murky and indistinguishable haze.

 

“I may be an outsider, but I need guidance,” she said, and, sensing Vector had understood her look and was poised to interrupt her, she rushed on.  “There are terrible things in my past – blanks in my memory, that sometimes lead me to wonder who I am.”

 

“Then I will take you to Amun-Le,” nodded the acolyte, turning to lead them down the long, cool, corridor of stone that stretched into the depths of the Shrine.

 

“Are you sure about this?” Vector leaned forward to Cipher’s ear, and even in the whisper, she could hear his worry.  He knew what lay hidden in the shrouded recesses of her memory, things imprisoned under strong psychological locks the keys to which lay in the hands of the Minders of Imperial Intelligence: The death-screams of thousands of innocent Imperial civilians.  Cipher had deliberately refused to tamper with those locks when she had earned the opportunity to do so – and now she was giving an unknown entity carte blanche to use whatever lock picks lay in their grasp to spring those shrieking specters from their cages.  What would surge in on their howling wake?  _Lest I should find the only alternative was to lose my mind completely_.  The Paha that emerged from this so-called healing might not be the one who had entered on it, and the prospect of the change being detrimental, as he had every reason to expect it might be, alarmed him. 

 

“Because,” he added, “we are not.”

 

“No,” she answered, and in that much, at least, she was honest.  “But I can’t think of another way.  Can you?”

 

Vector had no ready answer, and before he could formulate one, the acolyte stopped their progress before an open door, raising an arresting hand and fixing his chambered eyes on Paha. 

 

“You must do this alone.  Enter when you are ready.”

 

The acolyte stepped back with a respectful attitude, and as he left them, Vector slid his fingers between hers, a tiny gesture of trust and affection that was all they allowed themselves to show in public, even here.

 

“Be careful,” he advised.  “We know this is supposed to heal, but… we are – worried.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Don’t push, not for yourself, or for your mission.  Bas-Ton suggested patience.  You’re walking the path of the Shining Man… see where it goes - but be sure of your footing first.”

 

“I know.”

 

“And…”

 

“I know,” Paha replied with emphasis and solemnity.  Her fingers twitched, tightening of their own volition around his.  “I love you, too.”

 

“We know,” he answered, a flicker of a concerned smile crossing his face, transitory as a shooting star.  “We will be here waiting for you.”

 

\- - - -

 

Paha slowly but without a faltering step, approached the worn steps of the dais where the Mystic Amun-Le awaited her on the other side of a sort of large square stone cauldron on a thick pedestal.  She guessed she would not need to explain her reason for being here – if, that is, this Amun-Le was truly a Mystic worth her salt.

 

“The fracture is deep,” Amun-Le observed.  Did she know her craft indeed, or was this the usual opening?  Every fortune-teller knew how to fleece a client through the timely application of vague observations, the like of which the eager listener distorted to apply to themselves.  Since only the ill would come to Amun-Le, she certainly would never be wrong when making such a beginning.  

 

Perhaps Amun-Le sensed her skepticism.  Perhaps the Mystic often explained her esoteric practices in simple terms to supplicants, or at least, to ignorant outsiders.  Either way, she continued, “To rebuild a body, a spirit, one rebuilds history.  The vitalicron is the vessel of memory.  Each petitioner fills. In a vitalicron, the ceremony is preserved.”

 

A vessel of memory, preserving the ceremony?  A record of everyone who came to the Shrine!  That idea held promise, if the Shining Man had in fact been here.  Considering Bas-Ton had stated that the Shining Man had immersed himself in every Voss ritual and initiation he could, it was entirely likely that he had.  How convenient to have been given this information so easily, so soon! 

 

But that did not, however, mean that there was space to back out of this procedure, and there was still the possibility that there was more to learn – the location, perhaps, of stored vitalicrons, or if one existed for the Shining Man.  And there was the downside to Amun-Le’s information, Paha reflected, that what Paha left behind here in this vitalicron would be as accessible to who came after her as she intended the Shining Man’s to be to her.  Although, if Hunter knew as much about her as he intimated he did, anything of her that reposed in the vitalicron was probably old news.  She refocused her attention on Amun-Le.

 

“I am honored, Mystic of the Shrine,” she replied, bowing over the shallow stone bowl, slowly wafting up a faint green smoke from glowing embers.

 

“Breathe the mists and speak true,” Amun-Le said, and, responding to a motion of the Mystic’s hand, the embers sprang to life in eerie orange flame, belching out suffocating fumes, clinging to Paha’s lungs and burning into her eyes.  She gripped the rough cut edge of the stone pedestal, willing herself upright, but the drug was swift and potent, beyond her coping despite the benefits conferred upon her by Watcher X’s serum, and, overcome, she slumped to the floor.

 

When she opened her eyes, she got the sense that she had not been out long, or that perhaps she had not even been completely unconscious; it seemed, in any event, that it was a sufficiently normal reaction that Amun-Le did not seem alarmed.  She pulled herself upright and faced Amun-Le across the brazier, but shaking her head did not dispel the odd feeling in her mind, at once both foggy as to her awareness of the present, and yet delineating her past in overwrought clarity.  A figure stepped from the bowl of flame before her eyes – a figure that was strangely reminiscent of Aristocra Saganu.

 

“You are the tree,” said Amun-Le clearly.  “Your roots, the past.  The universe is soil.  The tree is sick.  See what nurtures the roots, and remember a homeworld of ice.  A proud people, never trusting.  Who were you then?”

 

Chiss, of course.  And Csilla, that frozen land of her infancy, barred from bearing her footstep forever more.

 

Chiss, of course.  The Empire that she served, ever in secret, another tool in their box of many, but in the only manner that let her have free use of her talent and judgement – two of the things she could call her own, in spite of her expulsion, two things that would have been stripped from her in the ordinary ranks of the military.

 

“I was naïve,” she answered.  “I knew the Empire disdained non-humans.  I thought I would be the exception.”

 

“Perhaps you were, at times,” counseled Amun-Le.  Truth?  Or kindness?   Maybe both, and why not?  A truth did not always have to be disagreeable.  The Aristocra walked from the fire and vanished.

 

“Consider now the seasons that shaped the tree,” Amun-Le continued.  “First, a season of fire.  You purged a darkness by kindling the blaze.  Many screamed, but you did what no other could.”

 

A trio of figures stepped from the flames, instantly recognizable – the Minister of Intelligence, her former Keeper, then the terrorist the Eagle, and finally, Darth Jadus.  Paha’s breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding, and her ears filled with the terrifying sound she knew she could not block: the sound of thousands of voices, crying out in terror, before their final silence.  Shuddering, she felt the fragility of her mind bowing under the weight of an unpardonable guilt, and knew the awful thought that she had, again, made a terrible mistake.

 

“Then a season of famine,” Amun-Le progressed relentlessly, as Jadus, the Minister, and the Eagle passed out of the flame and were replaced by Watcher X, Keeper, and Ardun Kothe.  “You stood alone, your friends and foes carved the wood of your mind.  Speak of the wound.  Speak of your strength.”

 

Her wound?  Her first inclination was to think of the distortions that had been programmed there, to strip her of her judgment and will, but this was not truly what had hurt her.  She had been honest, scrupulously honest, when she had told the Minister that she did not blame him for what he had elected to do – in place of, most particularly, ending her life at the demand of the Dark Council.  That was not the wound.

 

The wound, the thing that never healed: her fear of failure.  Her sense that she would, someday, prove that she was not as strong or as brave or as brilliant or as daring as she flattered herself she was, and that would be the day that she proved the Empire correct: she was an inferior alien, a specimen of a lesser race, and an outcast even among them.  That would be the day her fears would all be realized.  She had already failed to protect the Empire from Jadus.  It would only be a matter of time before she failed it again.  _That_ was her wound; _that_ was what woke her in the middle of the night.

 

 _In the middle of the night…_ she repeated to herself.  In the middle of the night – _that_ night – there had been Vector.  Patient, faithful, understanding, beloved Vector.  The one force that had pulled her from the terror of her vision not once, but twice: the first, as she saw it in her sleep; the second, as she watched it unfold for real on Quesh.  He had been there, in the middle of the night, and had been there on nights since, and would still be there for nights to come.  She would do everything in her power to stay worthy of that patience, that faith, that understanding, that love.  That strength.  He was it.  More than the Empire, more than Intelligence, he was her reason for excellence.

 

“No matter how many lies I live, I do fight for a reason,” Paha declared.  “My strength is there.”

 

“Only if you truly understand,” Amun-Le cautioned.  Oh yes, Paha understood.  Her striving and straining, once based on the vanity of proving wrong the humans who scorned the alien races, once based on pride in earning the approbation of her superiors, once based on the duty she owed the Empire, was now based on a less selfish objective: protecting the person she valued above all others in the universe.  Keeper, Watcher X, and Kothe walked out of the flames and vanished.

 

“Now you are in a season of mists.  All things are obscured,” observed the Mystic, and Paha felt no surprise as the solitary figure of Hunter emerged from the flames.  “Your spirit seeks balance while the world crumbles beneath you.  You must change, but what will you become?”

 

Watcher X had asked her much the same question: what do you want?  She had given an answer that she had felt best served her mission.  It hadn’t been an incorrect choice, but it wasn’t the only answer.  There were things in life that were beyond the dictates of the mission, things that deserved to remain free of the control of Imperial Intelligence.  Things like how she felt about Vector.

 

She returned Amun-Le’s level gaze and made her answer.  “I want to choose my own fate.”

 

Amun-Le bowed her head serenely.  “Then you are truly healed.”

 

The fire flickered once, then died, returning back to the coals smoldering slowly in the bottom of the stone basin.  The fog that clouded her view of the present faded with it, and the memories of her past resettled themselves into their proper places; a quick internal interview indicated that Watcher X’s final gift had not been altered, but the chains on her memory of Jadus’ Eradicator attacks had been loosened, in defiance of all the Minders’ skills.  And yet – Paha did not feel as though the guilt would drive her insane.  She could recall now, with clarity, the events of that day, as well as the procedures with the Minders that had lasted for weeks after as they programmed her with the IX serum.  Most of it wasn’t pleasant, but then, she hadn’t expected it to be.  It was, she reminded herself, her policy that it was always better to _know_.  And she knew much more now than she did when she had awoken that morning.  She knew what it was she fought for.  She knew her strength.

 

Vector was waiting exactly as he said he would be, exactly as she knew he would be, and although he opened his mouth to speak when he saw her emerge, his opportunity and his breath were cut off as she caught his face lightly between her hands, bestowing on him an unguarded kiss of the most sincere and solemn affection.  The action surprised him; they had been very circumspect around each other save for in the utmost and undisturbed privacy, and the Voss acolyte was even now approaching them.

 

“We take that to mean it went well?” he asked when he could.  The colors of her aura were the most vibrant he had ever seen in her, and they swirled as she nodded her promise to give him the details later; she stepped back as the acolyte greeted them.

 

“The honored one Amun-Le, has spoken,” the acolyte said formally.  “The healing has been recorded.  You hold a vitalicron – the memory of your wholeness, technologically stored.  It must go to our vaults.”

 

“But is it secure?” asked Cipher.  “Say someone wanted to view one of these vitalicrons…”

 

“It is safe,” assured the acolyte as he led them through a door.  Vitalicrons, shining cubes of all colors and sizes, sat arrayed over tables, or aligned neatly on shelves, and Cipher wondered what the Voss would do when they finally ran out of room.  “Each vitalicron is genetically locked. Only its creator may know what happened.  Ten thousand and more are stored in the vault.  Honor us by placing yours within.”

 

The acolyte bowed again and retreated.

 

“The Shining Man’s path continues,” observed Vector.  “If he was healed, he went to the vault as well.”

 

“Then let’s hope Bas-Ton got something out of the ashes of the Shining Man’s tomb,” Cipher replied, dialing up the teahouse owner on her holo.

 

It was beyond Cipher’s guessing whether the genetic workup Bas-Ton sent was insufficient, or the vitalicron had been deliberately damaged – in truth, it didn’t matter – but the vitalicron was only able to display fragments of a conversation between a Mystic healer and the Shining Man.  It was enough, though, to indicate that the Shining Man claimed to have traveled to the Shrine from the Nightmare Lands, bearing a scroll from the Chamber of Ashes that prophesied the Shining Man’s arrival.

 

“Clever little con job,” Cipher commented.  “Earn the Mystics’ approval at the Shrine with a manufactured prophecy about himself, and then on to Voss-Ka.”

 

“Where the regular Voss learned to love him.  Who wouldn’t, after he came with the Mystics’ stamp of approval?” replied Bas-Ton.  “But what worries me is where he claims to have gotten that prophetic scroll.”

 

“With a name like ‘The Nightmare Lands,’” quipped Cipher, “I’m guessing it isn’t all flowers and warm fuzzies.”

 

“The Nightmare Lands are forbidden to the Voss – legend says that the ruins drive people insane, and our scouts come back in parts.  However,” Bas-Ton added, “old ruins might be the only place he could find materials to fake a scroll of prophecy… but there’s nowhere worse on the planet.”

 

“Get me what you can,” Cipher requested, “particularly on this Chamber of Ashes.  I’ll meet you at the teahouse tomorrow morning.”

 

\- - - -

 

Cipher stared at the recorded message that hovered over the holo held in the outstretched hand of Therod-Ton, the reputed Bas-Ton’s brother.  This was not at all what she had expected to find when she returned to the teahouse, but a palpable strained tension struck her the instant she stepped over the threshold.  It wasn’t long to find out the cause: Bas-Ton had been abducted.

 

“I’m truly sorry about this,” she offered, looking at Bas-Ton’s son and daughter, Phi-Ton and Yana-Ton, in turn.  “I’ve put your father in danger.  I’ll do everything I can to bring him back.”  She meant it.

 

“You know the drill,” said the bounty hunter in the holo message.  “This stays between us.”

 

It certainly would, she thought, at least until Bas-Ton had been returned safely to his supposed family, and Cipher could look Hunter in the eye as she shot him dead.  Of course, while Cipher knew full well that Hunter was the one behind this little stunt, she would put credits on it that the taunting little coward wouldn’t dare show his face.  Hunter wouldn’t be this close to the action; there was always an intermediary.  Who would it be this time?  An avenging son of Karrels Javis, Nem’ro the Hutt’s disgraced steward that she had eliminated?  Saber and Wheel, freelancing now that their leader Ardun Kothe was dead by Cipher’s actions?  A remaining fringe of the Eagle’s terrorism network?

 

Vector heard the jingle of surprise that rang through Cipher’s aura as they arrived at the handoff as dictated by the anonymous bounty hunter.  As they entered, the sight of a rather unimposing Hutt, with a fairly predictable number of hired guards, meant nothing to him, but it clearly meant something to Cipher.

 

“Fa’athra,” she muttered aside.  He assumed it was the Hutt’s name, and not another Chenuh swear word.

 

“The ‘Red Blade’ at last,” Fa’athra opened the dialogue in Huttese with an aggrieved and angry voice.  “The scheming Imperial who stole the crown of crime king from me!  I am Fa’athra, exile of Hutta and last of the Miasmic Order of Ardos.”

 

Another megalomaniacal space slug with delusions of grandeur – and now, Cipher guessed, a grudge that he’d had plenty of time to nurse.  Lovely.  These kinds were all the same: lots of talk, and little real power.  By her estimation, the next part would be a list of grievances, maybe a mention of some soul-searching journey, and then a galaxy-shaking epiphany that had set him on his vengeful path.  She waited patiently to see if she were right.

 

“You stoked the war between Nem’ro and myself,” complained Fa’athra.  “You made him ally with the Empire, and I lost our feud.  For months, I wandered the galaxy, like the great Hutts of old.  Then the truth as shown to me.”

 

So far, so predicted.  Fine, she’d play along, although she knew already what she would hear.  “Alright, what’s this truth?”

 

“A Republic man contacted me,” Fa’athra continued, riveting his orange, slit-like eyes on her.  “He revealed the part you and your Empire played in my downfall.  Directed me here.  Now, in accordance with the First Blood-Law of Evone, I extract payment for misdeeds in flesh.”

 

“Let me guess: young, SIS, winning smile?” she surmised, and she flashed a quick and meaningful look at Vector.  She hadn’t touched her rifle yet, but there was no mistake: she was letting him know this was going to end in a fight.  “No prizes for guessing who, I suppose.”

 

“You know your enemies,” Fa’athra replied, his tone tinged with a wicked glee, “but you underestimated me.  Kill her.”

 

Cipher doubted she had underestimated anybody, least of all a has-been Hutt and his handful of hired thugs.  But she had neglected to take one thing into account: Bas-Ton himself.  She had little imagined he would try to… what was it he had tried to do, anyway?  Distract the guards?  Give her an opening?  Swing the balance of numbers into her favor?

 

Whatever Bas-Ton’s intent had been didn’t matter, as all his intentions resulted in the same end: a blaster shot to the chest at nearly point-blank range.  Stupid, stupid, so stupid!  She hadn’t needed the help; she had handled worse than whatever goons Fa’athra could manage to scrape up to throw at her.  He was a damned undercover civilian!  Five years of serving tea and observing Voss culture was perfect for an intelligence briefing, but it was of no use for keeping combat skills honed.  He had to have known that.

 

Cipher repeated it to herself as she fired the shot that felled the last of Fa’athra’s squad.  _He had to have known tha_ t – but, aghast at how easily his mercenaries had fallen, Fa’athra’s incredulous whining was interrupting her thoughts again.  If it weren’t for the motionless form of Bas-Ton sprawled nearby, everything about this entire scenario Cipher would have considered ludicrous in the extreme.

 

“I hope you didn’t spend too much on these,” Cipher said acidly, nudging the lifeless body of one of the bounty hunters with her foot.  She stepped a little aside, pacing in a manner that was almost a prowl, which seemed to make the Hutt more nervous.  That was merely a side benefit: her real goal was to be able to exchange eye contact with Vector without it being obvious.  She hoped Vector had learned to read space slugs.   “I don’t like my identity being made public.  Who knows the truth?”

 

“I told no one,” Fa’athra claimed, and as she turned on her heel to start her next lap, she caught a glance from Vector.  His face was impassive, but his eyes held meaning, for those who knew how to read them.  Cipher knew that very well by now.  Fa’athra wasn’t lying.

 

“But the one who told me – the one called Hunter – I think he will tell many more,” Fa’athra offered.  It seemed that this blue Red Blade was not going to kill him – yet – which meant there was room to bargain.  And many a good bargain had a freebie or two to thank for its existence.

 

“I don’t doubt it,” Cipher replied, and Fa’athra struggled not to twitch nervously.  A freebie had no use at a bargaining table if the other party gave it no value.  His opinion on the likelihood of keeping his life was dropping again, and he struggled to find a fresh offer, all too aware that his means were meager enough.

 

“You aren’t without talents or skills, Fa’athra,” Cipher conceded, interrupting the Hutt’s mental tallying of chips, “it just happened that Nem’ro had something we needed.  You didn’t.  I have no doubt that you will rebuild.”

 

Fa’athra eyed Cipher cautiously; her words seemed to indicate that she would allow him his life.  In exchange for what?  All the power in this bargain lay on her side of the table.

 

“You get to leave here,” she decreed, “but in the future, you will help me.  You will provide me with resources and information, when I require it.”

 

The blue Red Blade might be a good fighter, but she was a soft negotiator.  Best not to show her how pleased he was at being let off so easily.  “I will…” Fa’athra said with a show of reluctance, “do what I must.  You will hear from me.”

 

With the truce established, Cipher hurried to where Bas-Ton lay, expecting to find him already dead.  He wasn’t, but Vector confirmed Cipher’s suspicion.

 

“The sparks in your body sing mournfully,” Vector observed.

 

“Someone really wants you dead to go digging up your past,” he said in broken tones.  “Trying to keep you from the Shining Man… I’m not making it home.  But at least I’ll die an Imperial… instead of a blasted alien.”

 

“I can get you a medpac, and a speeder to Voss-Ka,” Cipher urged.  Bas-Ton – or whoever he really was – continued to irk her with his casual denigration of the non-human races, but it wasn’t something he need die for.  He had at least been helpful, and if her immediate concern was rather callous in her need for his information on the Nightmare Lands, she had a deeper wish to honor her promise to the anxious family awaiting his safe return at the teahouse.  It appeared, however, that Bas-Ton didn’t intend to care whether she failed in her promise or not.

 

“I bleed human blood,” Bas-Ton objected, wincing in pain.  “You’d just blow my cover and I’d die anyway.  But you need to know: I was studying the Nightmare Lands when I was captured.  The Chamber of Ashes… it’s where the Shining Man supposedly found his scroll of prophecy.  The only maps…  The only maps of the Nightmare Lands are locked in the capitol building.  Carvings, tapestries…you’ll never… find your way without them.  My Voss family.  They’ll get you inside… to the maps.”

 

“You did your duty to the Empire,” Cipher offered.  It was, even she felt, some cold consolation.  _He had to have known that_ , Cipher thought again, followed by the idea that perhaps this was the ending he had wanted all along.  So immersed as he was in Voss society and his adopted Voss family, his only way out would be to leave Voss forever, either by ship – in secret only, as Cipher had seen or heard nothing, other than a few idealistic words from Phi-Ton, that indicated to her that the Voss were particularly interested in traveling to worlds beyond their own – or by death.  He had said he wanted to die an Imperial, and now, beside an Intelligence agent of the Empire, he lay here doing exactly that, having crowned his work with granting the knowledge and experience of five long years to that agent.  Perhaps the idea that he had served his Empire well gave him an easier end than she would have thought.  “No one can ask for more.”

 

“Still,” Bas-Ton gasped as he resigned himself to death, “never thought… I’d die here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) This chapter, I think, really holds the some of the meat of the Voss events - the vitalicron ritual - so I hope this makes up for the prior two chapters being, in my opinion, a little weak. I think I do better at handling the progression of characters' thought processes than I do trying to move along the bare facts of events that are necessary for plot advancement, but aren't critically interesting in and of themselves. I think a lot of writers have the opposite problem.
> 
> 2) I do think Bas-Ton took the opportunity of Fa'athra's kidnapping him to get out of his mission in the most permanent of ways. First, he was totally unarmed, and had engaged in no combat-oriented missions for at least five years. He's been serving tea, and watching the Voss, for half a decade. There's no way he thought he would accomplish anything other than his own demise by throwing himself into a fray with no arms and no protections. Second, Intelligence placed him on Voss five years ago, and, with the Voss disinclined to take sides, and furthermore, as a member of a low-born family with no political power, there is almost nothing that he would be able to accomplish in terms of swaying the Voss to ally with the Empire. This means that the entire sum of his mission on Voss has been to observe and report, until Keeper arranged his meeting with Cipher. This is the first interesting thing that has happened to him in years, and, moreover, perhaps the first time Intelligence has really asked him to put his skills to work for the benefit of the empire. Third, he's been burying his disdain and dislike for the Voss and his family for just as long. He hates it here on Voss, but there is no indication whatsoever that Intelligence is going to extract him, despite his inability to influence official policy (he would also be able to guess that Intelligence's position on the matter would be that, as he is now advancing the cause of one of their agents, his continued undercover position is justified). Fourth, he knows full well that Cipher has no problem with "the beasts and the Gormak" and the other threats that prove "how bad it is outside", plus he knows that she is heading into the Nightmare Lands, and is aware of the dangers of that place - with that in mind, does he _really_ think she can't handle a small goon squad? It would be completely illogical if he did. 
> 
> Which leaves the conclusion: he did know she could handle it, he guessed that Intelligence had no plans to extract him, he knew he would continue to be stuck in Voss-Ka on a drudge mission of interminable length until he was beyond all opportunity for advancement, and both the isolationist Voss culture and his pseudo-family would make it near impossible to leave the planet while appearing as a native. His best chance for a way out, on his own terms, was to die, and Fa'thra's revenge gave him an opportunity. He "never thought he'd die here" because he expected that one day, Intelligence would extract him - but with the realization that his assistance to Cipher would have given Intelligence plenty of reason to leave him in place for another five years, or longer, he knows now that day will never come.


	22. Haste to the Wedding

“It’s not that I felt any particular friendship for Bas-Ton,” Cipher said quietly to Vector as they journeyed back to Voss-Ka.  “I barely knew him, and in what I did know, there were a number of things about him I didn’t much like.  Given what he said regarding the Voss, I can only imagine what his private thoughts of me were.”

 

“We aren’t sorry that he didn’t know the details of our nature,” Vector admitted.  “And yet…”

 

“And yet,” agreed Cipher with a sigh.  “His family.  They genuinely care for him.”

 

“Or rather, who they think he is,” Vector pointed out.  “Which is not the same as who he actually was.”

 

“Him, or their ideal of him, they will still mourn.  And I will still have to break it to them,” she said, inhaling a long draught of breath.  The prospect troubled her; her aura was all atonal disarray and thoughtfulness.  She had shared with Vector her notion that Bas-Ton must have known that his rash act was likely to get him killed.

 

“But,” considered Cipher, “his final words were contradictory.  He threw himself unarmed at a trained killer, and then said he never thought he’d die here.  I don’t understand it.”

 

“Perhaps he didn’t, until just then,” Vector replied.  “A sudden impulse – the final way to control his fate.  Selecting the moment and the method to set free the sparks of his life.”

 

“I told Amun-Le I wanted to choose my own fate,” Cipher said.  “I hope there’s a bit more to that than just merely choosing how I die.  I want to choose how I live, first.”

 

Vector walked along beside her in silence a moment or two before he answered, “We are of the opinion you’ve done that already.”

 

“As have you?”

 

“Yes.  We know ourselves, and are content with what we are.  We are human.  We are Killik.  We are a Joiner and we are Dawn Herald.  We are a diplomat, and we are a warrior.  We are also your…”  He paused, considering that they had not yet constrained their relationship with labels, titles, or description.

 

“Companion?” supplied Paha, knowing already the word was inadequate.  “Associate?  Boyfriend?  Pelvic affiliate?”

 

Vector stifled a chuckle. “We would choose the word ‘beloved.’  And you are ours.”

 

\- - - -

 

The teahouse was empty of customers when they arrived, and Cipher knew that her appearance, without Bas-Ton, would be all the warning his family would require for their worst fears to be realized.  Nonetheless, Therod-Ton stepped forward to request the news directly.

 

“Outsider.  Where is my brother?”

 

“I’m sorry,” Cipher replied sincerely.  “I did everything I could, but I was too late.  He died thinking of his family.”

 

It might have been a banality, and the false Bas-Ton might have held a certain degree of contempt for his Voss family, but it wasn’t a complete lie, and if it would provide them some consolation and closure, then a lie was the best thing she could offer.  Phi-Ton bowed his head, and Yana-Ton buried her face in her hands, while Cipher tried to keep her complicated and undefined feelings of – _something_ – was it guilt? – at bay.

 

“Father thought of you as family,” said Phi-Ton.  “Mourn with us.”

 

“I – I will honor your father’s memory,” Cipher answered uncertainly.  Displays of commiseration were not one of her strong suits; grief, like many intensely personal emotions, among the Chiss was kept private.  The Chiss had a somewhat well-deserved reputation for insensitivity, but the truth of the matter was that the face of efficiency and reserve that they showed the world masked a deep-hidden well of feeling.  The thought of sharing the trappings and pantomiming the motions of open mourning – particularly for a man she barely knew, let alone liked – gave her some discomfort – and yet, what else could she do?

 

The Ton family would be well within their rights to lay the blame for Bas-Ton’s death at her feet.  Hunter may have set Fa’athra on his little quest for vengeance, but without Cipher’s interference here, Hunter would never have sent Fa’athra to Voss in the first place.  As a member of Imperial Intelligence, Bas-Ton knew the risks of his profession.  His pseudo-family, on the other hand, had been given no such primer on the danger.  In a way, they had been forcibly recruited as surely as Protean had done Vector – without consent, without warning, without knowledge.  For a Minder at Intelligence headquarters, it would be easy to consider their sorrow as mere collateral damage, but it was Cipher Nine, not the Minders, who had to look Bas-Ton’s family in the face and speak to them of his death.

 

“He was also… helping me with something,” she added uneasily, rather hating herself for pushing her mission on the back of the bad news.  But, let them execrate her for it however much, she couldn’t ignore her need for information.  Even if they cursed her impertinence, it would be better than this heavy emotional weight that clouded the room, like the cloying incense that puffed into the air in murky clouds.  “With his dying breath, he told me to go to you.”

 

Therod-Ton raised his head.  “Yes.  You would see the Nightmare Lands,” he said, his voice inquisitive.  “Bas-ton asked about the sacred carvings.  The carvings are protected heritage.  Only a Voss may study them.”

 

“Bas-Ton thought you could show me…” Cipher pressed.   “There must be a way.”

 

“We will help you.  Bas-Ton prized your friendship.  We must honor that,” he answered seriously, and Cipher was glad only Vector could see the uncomfortable sense of culpability that twitched in her aura in reaction to Therod-Ton’s words.  “Only Voss see the carvings… to see them, you must be Voss.  Become one of our family.”

 

“What does joining your family entail?” Cipher asked hesitantly, not entirely certain she liked the gist the conversation had abruptly taken in just a few short words.

 

“Phi-Ton, are you willing?” Therod-Ton demanded directly.

 

“I am,” Phi-Ton replied with a bow of his head.  “A father finds a wife.  Bas-Ton never did this for me.  Join our family in marriage.”

 

Cipher blinked in shock.  She had hardly given the young Voss particular notice or thought, other than that he was youthful, exuberant, and eager.  _Innocent_ was, perhaps, the best word for it, although he somehow managed to maintain that innocence without the insipid naiveté that generally accompanied it – a legacy, perhaps, of his commando experience.  She took a breath, muffling down a cough prompted by the thick fumes of the incense.  “You don’t have to do this,” she offered him a way out.  “Not for me, or your father.”

 

“Bas-Ton wanted to help,” replied Phi-Ton.  “So do I.”  Phi-Ton, she reflected retrospectively, had always been at his most eager and exuberant when addressing her; she had chalked it up to his un-Voss-like interest in the galaxy that lay beyond his planet, and his enthusiasm to see the many worlds that danced slowly through it.  A born ambassador of his people, and a fitting student for Vector, she had thought at the time.  How could she pride herself on reading others and yet have been so blind?  It wasn’t space, or other worlds, that enraptured Phi-Ton’s attention, although that was certainly part of it.  It was _her_.  A creature with all the experience of adventure and travel that fired Phi-Ton’s imagination contained in a not, apparently, wholly unappealing shell.  She would never, she thought, be used to the idea of being such an immediate object of physical desire, and she didn’t dare look at Vector.  She began to have a faint feeling of being trapped; this insufferable incense must be making her stupid.  But how could that be, when even Scorpio’s lethal concoction had had no effect on her?  Surely, there had to be some other way – she was an adopted member of House Miurani; why could not the same apply here?

 

“We mourn later,” stated Therod-Ton, before Cipher could speak; he took her silence as acceptance for a fait accompli.  “Make preparations.  Go to the Sacred Flame in the city.  You will be married today.  You will see the carvings of the Nightmare Lands.  Bas-Ton’s wishes fulfilled.”

 

Stunned and mute, Cipher mechanically turned and left the teahouse.  Sixty meters out, she pulled up short in the middle of the street, staring into the distance.  The autumn air was crisp and refreshing, and cut through the dizzying fog that seeped in cloudy shadows through her mind from the incense in the overheated teahouse.

 

"Agent?" inquired Vector.  There was a muddled haze in her aura, a nonplussed bewilderment that waffled confusingly with a sense of objection and resistance, all held strictly under a short rein.

 

"What," Cipher said distinctly, "just happened?"

 

"You were given an offer of marriage," Vector answered with considerable calm, "and you accepted it."

 

"That's what I thought," she replied, then added, "It wasn't a hallucination.  I had to be sure."

 

Only then did she turn to look at him, and he saw the tight control she was holding over her aura was wavering at the edges.  "But I can't get married!"

 

"Why not?" he answered, both practical and curious.

 

"Because... I – I don't want to!" She exclaimed, then caught herself sharply.  "Oh, how idiotic.  As if I haven't had to do things against my inclination before.  Don't be stupid, Fennec," she snipped at herself under her breath.

 

Her emotional control re-exerted itself, but Vector had seen her colors of truth bear out her words: she had no desire to be married.  Something small and undefinable, however, hid itself in the depths of her aura, and he knew it would take some time to work out its meaning, if he could coax it into the open.  He wasn’t sure he could.  Paha refocused her eye on Vector.  "You are taking this awfully well."

 

"We were considering the same could be said of you," Vector replied, and Paha couldn't tell if he were being facetious or not, so she made a noise that fell somewhere between disbelieving and derisive.  In truth, he had not yet had the time to fully consider his feelings on the matter, but her observation was accurate.  He was taking it well.  The verification of her emotional state his vision granted him gave him an assurance that very few in his current position, without his advantages, would have experienced.

 

"Perhaps," he said, "it is that we can see you are in a difficult situation, with very few viable options.  Or perhaps it is just that we know when this mission is over, we will leave this planet together, and you will be with us."  He gave her a smile of significance.

 

"Aren't you sure of yourself!" Paha retorted spiritedly, albeit with amusement.  “It would serve you right if I stayed right here and settled down with Phi-Ton.”

 

“And served tea for the rest of your life?  We can’t quite picture it.”

 

“Afraid the pheromones are wearing off?” she challenged, aiming for a teasing tone.

 

“Our charm is all we need,” he replied smugly.  “But then, we’ve always questioned your taste in men.”

 

Paha put her head to one side and regarded him thoughtfully, unable to maintain her levity any longer.  “You really _are_ that sure of yourself,” she observed, her voice dropping all hint of amusement.

 

“No, we are that sure of _you_ ,” he corrected mildly.  Before his eyes, the forced cheerfulness faltered and faded from her aura, giving way to the uncertainty and turmoil that lay beneath.  She had entered the teahouse expecting a funeral, and left it thrown into a wedding.  Small wonder she looked so off-balance.

 

Paha swallowed, vainly trying to push down a nervous lump that choked suddenly in her throat.  “I promise, it’s just for show.  You do know that, right?”

 

“We do,” he said, looking at her closely, trying to sift through the turbulent layers of her aura.

 

“I mean, if I actually wanted Phi-Ton – and I _don’t_ – you would know.”

 

“We would.”  Of course he would; he could read her almost as quickly as she could read herself.

 

“Because we need this, and unless you can think of another way to get it, a way that doesn’t involve a body count and a diplomatic incident, then I have no choice.”

 

“We believe we observed something to that effect, yes,” he said slowly, and it began to dawn on him that this strange catechism was, to his surprise, her working up her courage.  She had faced down a Darth of the Dark Council and had gone toe-to-toe with a Jedi while hardly batting an eyelash, and yet, here she now was summoning all her nerve to go through the motions of a sham marriage.  She wasn’t just off-balance: she was strikingly close to terrified.  He would never have believed it could he not see it with his own eyes.  Once again he caught a half-lit glimpse of some tiny hidden thing, too secret to be clearly delineated behind the foreground of her unsettled state, and he had the oddest sense that whatever it was, it wasn’t shameful or reprehensible – so why should it be buried so deeply?  Too much was in the way for him to understand it.

 

“Good, because honestly?” she said, raising eyes to him shot through with apprehension.  “I really need your support on this.”

 

Vector softly took a half-step towards her, and reached out one hand to clasp her fingers between his own.  “Agent,” he spoke with quiet sincerity, “you have it.  You will never need to question it.”

 

Paha’s fretful gaze flicked to the ceremonial structure that housed the Sacred Flame.  “Then for heaven’s sake,” she gasped with trepidation, “give me a shove through the door!”

 

\- - - -

 

The light and noise inside the teahouse was, in all honesty, rather burdensome, and it struck Paha as entrirely too incongruous.  Had it only been that morning that Bas-Ton had died?  And now, his survivors and friends assembled to honor his memory by celebrating the bogus marriage of the fake man’s unaware son to a deceiver who was using them for information on a forged prediction from a counterfeit prophet.  Incongruous was probably the best of the possible terms she could use.  But she plastered a smile on her face and accepted the well-wishes with the same stiff graciousness that had marked her motions and words throughout that evening's ceremony, like an actor in an unfamiliar role.  Once activity had conquered her initial recoiling to the scheme, she had followed through with it gamely, if slightly woodenly, with every appearance of calm compliance.

 

Understandably for her profession, Paha generally disliked being the center of attention, and to be so as the result of a pack of falsely-uttered vows only heightened her discomfort.  She was chary with solemn promises: only once in her adult life had she inviolably and voluntarily taken a vow, on the day she joined Imperial Intelligence and swore to defend the Empire.  Here she had done it as a sham, a bit of dumb-show, solely for the purpose of upholding that first over-arching hold on her loyalties.  As for Phi-Ton... she heard the tone of his voice as he spoke his oath, promising to pour his life into her cupped hands, and knew he had been sincere.  He had meant what he said, while every line Paha had repeated was one more stick in a fragile structure of lies.  It was enough to break the heart.  Not hers – but his, perhaps.

 

These people, they were all so nice.  Pleasant, happy, simple people, and she almost envied their ignorance and their oppressive kindness.  They were like children, or maybe child prodigies, with their rituals and their Mystics and their absolute faith in both, although she could not deny that the faith seemed to be well-founded.  A Mystic’s vision was always true.  Every Voss yielded to a vision with unquestioning obedience.  Some part of her wished she could share in this security, innate to the Voss, but she was not Voss, in spite of whatever status was conferred on her by her pretend marriage.  A pretend marriage made her nothing more than a pretend Voss, and a lifetime spent maintaining a certain level of general distrust supported her outsider’s skepticism.  Things like the simple beliefs of the Voss, things that let them be so easily duped into the acceptance of a manufactured prophecy, were matters she had put aside from her life a long time ago, with fairy tales from her childhood.  If the Voss could keep those qualities, their simplicity, their innocence, their uncomplicated lives, then they were welcome to it, aloof from the machinations of the Empire and the Republic.  It was not her concern, and the sooner she could be away from them, the better.  The air was close with incense and spices, and she took advantage of an uptick in the general noise level to slip outside to the flagstone-paved verandah adjacent to the teahouse.

 

Vector was already there, his back to her as he leaned his forearms on the surrounding half-wall, his head tipped back while he stared at the stars in the clear autumn sky, and cocked slightly askew as though he were listening intently for their song.  He counted the rhythm of her footsteps and enjoyed the mingling of her scent, glazed over though it was by the veneer of cloying incense, with the crisp clean air of the night, before he turned towards her.

 

“Trysting with another man on your wedding night?” he asked, summoning up a flippancy he wasn’t sure he truly felt.  “The neighbors will talk.”

 

“Hooooph,” Paha replied, letting out all her breath in a rush and slumping her arms over the chilly stone of the half-wall beside him.  “Then they’ll talk.  Gossip is the blood of life to provincial cities, so I figure I’m doing them a favor.  They can chatter about Phi-Ton’s unfaithful wife, the vulgar Chiss outsider who stomped through the forbidden Nightmare Lands after getting the local teahouse proprietor killed.  So much for flying below some Jedi Master’s radar.  I’m a walking scandal here.”  She dropped her head between her arms, resting her brow on the cold, indifferent stone.

 

Vector was a little taken aback at her acerbity, and he paused to consider her words.

 

“I’m sorry,” she said a moment later.  “I’m a tad on edge, I think.”

 

“That thought did cross our mind,” Vector answered neutrally.

 

“In the middle of the ceremony this evening, I started to wonder: Just how much damage can one person do to a single family?” Paha raised her head and sent her gaze through the window to the interior of the teahouse, warm and aglow with light, then turned back to Vector.  “I haven’t come up with an answer to that yet.”

 

“And you suspect,” Vector hazarded, considering what he read in her aura now, and what he could observe of Phi-Ton’s enthusiastic heart during the ceremony, “that Phi-Ton will be among the casualties?”

 

“Without a doubt,” she said, straightening.  “I’ll do my best to minimize the damage, however.  He doesn’t deserve this.  None of them did.  They’re all so… I keep coming back to the word _innocent_.  They’re not cut out for the intrigues of the Empire and the Republic.  Someday, they may be.  But not these people, and not now.”

 

“Hunter and the Star Cabal have a great deal to answer for,” agreed Vector.  “But we fear there will yet be more.”

 

Paha replied with a generic noise of contemplative agreement.  She didn’t really want to talk about Hunter, or the Star Cabal.  She didn’t want to talk about Phi-Ton, or the wedding, or the Nightmare Lands or Bas-Ton’s death.  Judging by the silence that settled over them, Vector didn’t want to talk about those things, either.  Not for the first time that evening, or even just that hour, Paha wondered just what did Vector think of all this?

 

Outwardly, Vector had been very accepting of the whole scenario – he’d said it himself; she’d had very few options open to her, and he recognized most of those options carried an unacceptable body count.  He had given it a very logical consideration, with a detachment and reasoning worthy of a Chiss.  Additionally, his never-flagging interest in the habits of other cultures could not fail to have been intrigued at the unprecedented opportunities to see so much of the Voss way of life, from something as esoteric as a Mystic’s trials to the more mundane solemnity of a Voss wedding.  How academic.  As she mulled it over, it occurred to her that what he _thought_ was all well and good – but what whetted the emotional knife against her nerves was the question of what he _felt_ about it.  Was he really as calm as he appeared?

 

“Not many outsiders,” he said, so suddenly echoing her thoughts that she started as he spoke, “get to experience so much of Voss culture so quickly.  Or so intimately.”

 

“I’m… not exactly comfortable with the idea.  I’m not the diplomat you are,” she admitted, shifting awkwardly at his choice of the word “intimate.”  She tried to make her tone nonchalant.  “I seem to be making a habit of picking up families in my travels.  First House Miurani, now the Ton clan - a strange thing for a kin-less exile to collect.”

 

There was one conversation, Vector recalled, in which she hinted at considering the Killiks as some form of family, but she didn’t include that in her tally now.  Because there was no formal tie?  No official bond?  Was such a thing necessary beyond what they felt for each other?  He filed the idea away in his mind for the subject of a future meditation.

 

The night air was chilly, and Paha detected something almost uncomfortable in Vector’s responding silence.  She shuffled her feet, as if to make a motion to return indoors, to leave him to his thoughts, and her action prompted his hand to fly out, snatching hers abruptly.  He hesitated, irresolute, but she settled against the stone wall again, prepared to wait patiently as long as necessary for him to decide whether or not to reveal what weighed on his mind.

 

“We had a question,” he said at length, low-voiced.  “And we are aware it is an intrusive one.  But it does concern… us.”

 

Us as in him, or us as in _us_?  Paha wondered, before recalling his admonishment that the two were not always mutually exclusive.  She didn’t speak, uncertain but that the interruption of her voice would prompt him to bury his apprehension, which she suspected related directly to that point that had crossed her mind just minutes before: what he thought was one thing, and what he felt was quite another.  In the starlight and the faint halo the glow from the teahouse windows threw around her, he could see the slight motion of her head, encouraging his openness, and felt the warmth of her arm against his through their sleeves.

 

“We wanted to know if you had…” he paused, and Paha could actually hear him blushing – what a Joiner-like expression!  He hurried on, finishing with, “…given any thought to your wedding night.” 

 

“My w-” Paha just stopped herself from repeating him.  She let the issue hang in the air a moment before she answered.  “Yes, in fact, I have.”

 

Silence resumed, until Vector broke it again, wry-voiced.  “You’re going to make us ask, aren’t you?”

 

“What happened to all that assurance and reliance on your charm you had not so very long ago?” Paha replied, unable to restrain an inappropriate flash of wicked humor.  He replied with a single short syllable of chagrined laughter.

 

“But no.  I’m not going to make you ask,” Paha answered in a more serious tone.  “And no, I don’t intend to sleep with Phi-Ton tonight, or any other night.  Or day.  Or whenever.  I have been very accepting of their Voss customs; in return, they are going to have to accept a Chiss one, which is that a husband and wife do not touch each other on their wedding night, but spend the time in contemplation and serious conversation regarding their future together.”

 

A new silence filled the night, and against the backdrop of stars, Paha could just make out the profile of Vector’s face, not looking at her but directed out across the terraces of the mountain, down into the dark-shrouded and danger-filled valleys below.

 

“Vector?” she prompted softly.  Stars above, she hoped he wasn’t disappointed in that answer, or was expecting her to report later on cross-cultural differences in sex or something.  Just how much, she wondered again, were things – or were individuals – shared in the hive?

 

“Good,” he replied when he finally spoke, his tone grimly satisfied.  “We agreed – we knew – we would each have to share each other, with the hive, with Imperial Intelligence…” He broke off, then abruptly turned his head to face her, and she was deeply startled to see the whites of human eyes reflecting back the lamp light.  “But if I may be allowed a moment of selfishness, Paha, I don’t _want_ to share you with anybody.”

 

He seized her about the waist with one arm, yanking her roughly against him and entwining the fingers of his free hand in the short hair on the back of her head, and kissed her hungrily, as if doing so would stake some eternal claim upon her, body and soul.  The burst of her initial surprise faded quickly as she submerged herself in his embrace, the rising wave of their tensions ebbing with the feeling that this was as much right as the ceremony just short hours ago had been wrong.  In this, she felt no guilt.  It was not unfaithfulness when she had never meant a word of the vows in the first place.  Wherever in the galaxy they traveled, this was where her heart resided, and the only oath she ever intended to make or keep regarding her love would be one that ensured it would never be parted from his.  The guilty act would be to betray Vector, not Phi-Ton, and that was something she would never do, not while she had any strength to fight against it.  When Vector ended the kiss and drew his head back, his eyes were as she knew them, blacker than the starlit skies.  She let out a warm breath that swirled away into the night in a white misty cloud.

 

“We should probably say we’re sorry for that,” he murmured, somewhat abashed as he released her.  "Although we don't feel sorry."

 

“What for?  I don’t want to _be_ shared,” she answered, “any more than you want to share me.  It’s… comforting to know.”

 

“Strangely enough, it was comforting to say,” Vector admitted.  He propped his elbows on the stone wall, and she did the same, close beside him.  “We are so accustomed to the communal aspects of the hive, the sharing of thoughts and ideas.  Knowledge and emotion.  The reality of having something of our own is still unusual for us.  It brings us to touch colors that have not been part of our spectrum for some time.  Jealousy.  Possessiveness.  Anxiety.”

 

It had taken him some time to categorize his reaction to the day’s events, and the memory of both Saganu and Caldin crossed his mind more than once.  Strange, how many different ways a person could put a claim on another.  Caldin’s claim was raw greed and lust; Saganu’s was gracious respect and appreciation; Phi-Ton’s was guileless enthusiasm and curiosity, and Paha had treated them all accordingly.  What was his own?  Some combination of all of them, he suspected, and then some.  And somehow, that ineffable mixture had permitted him to claim the heart she had given him freely.  Truly, nothing in the galaxy, not even the Force, could be as mysterious as what two people could find in each other.

 

“I hope it hasn’t _all_ been negative,” she said, her smirk evident in her tone.

 

“Not at all.  Quite the contrary.”  He smiled at her, then, as an afterthought, inquired, “Contemplation and serious conversation?  We had no idea.”

 

“Vector,” she laughed, “I made that up.  How would the Voss, or even most humans, know any different?  _I_ don’t even know much about Chiss wedding customs.  It wasn’t really a big part of my upbringing.”

 

He broke into chuckles, scrubbing one hand over his brow.  “We might have guessed.”

 

“If that doesn’t work, or if he claims that since I agreed to ‘be Voss with him’ that means I give up my Chiss heritage, well… I have another trick I can use.  I’d rather not,” she added.  “I wasn’t ever much a one for the poisoner’s art, but I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I didn’t keep a sleeping powder or two about me.”

 

“Ah,” he shook his head with amusement.  “And here you have been letting us fret ourselves into quagmires of knifepoints and coals!  We’re sorry; we should have had more faith in you.”

 

“Yes, you should have,” she grinned, nudging him with her elbow, “but I’m actually rather glad you didn’t.  I don’t believe in deliberately making people I love jealous.  I have no patience for idiocy of that ilk.  But… I don’t mind knowing that you really wouldn’t give me up so easily.”

 

“We were trying to be supportive,” he replied, slightly nettled.  “The color of your stress was strident enough.  We didn’t figure to add to it.”

 

“I know.  And you _were_ supportive.  You did perfectly,” she answered with a quiet smile.  She leaned against him, tilting up her face to give him a small kiss on the cheek.  The clinging odor of the incense had almost vanished from her hair and skin, drawn off by the soft breezes of the chilly night, and he turned his face towards her, tempted by the invitation of her lips.  A slight motion from the corner of his eye caught his attention and he straightened, inserting a half meter of space and cold air between them.

 

“Your uncle-in-law,” he said in a low voice.  “Doubtless on behalf of your groom.”

 

Paha narrowed her eyes at him, but nonetheless, her tone was light.  “I’ll make you pay for that,” she threatened in an amiable hiss.

 

“We hope that is a promise,” he answered, flashing her a grin as he turned to cross the verandah into the city, “for we will hold you to it.  We will meet you tomorrow.”

 

Vector had vanished into the night before Cipher had even finished the approach to Therod-Ton, her new family member.

 

“Phi-Ton was asking after you,” he said gravely.

 

“Yes, I’m sure he must be.  I didn’t intend to be out so long, I apologize,” she replied.  How much had Therod-Ton seen?  Or heard?  The last thing she needed was for this whole deal to blow up in her face through a patent lack of respect for her new status as Phi-Ton’s wife.  She started to pass Therod-Ton to return to the teahouse when he arrested her with a hand on her forearm.

 

“I see your difficulty,” he said.  “I have the experience of many years.  I see the houses where love dwells.  It is not hard to see that it dwells with you and your companion.  It will not dwell in the house of Phi-Ton and you.”

 

Clearly, Therod-Ton had seen and heard enough.  Cipher opened her mouth, and then, finding herself at complete loss for an answer, she closed it again.  What excuse could she make?

 

“This is not new knowledge,” Therod-Ton continued, and Cipher struggled to read his reaction through his even tone.  “I saw before I asked Phi-Ton to stand forth.  I know the reasons for acceptance.  Phi-Ton may.  Or may not.  I ask only one thing.”

 

“If I can do so,” Cipher replied wth caution, all too aware of the fresh trouble that could arise from such an offer, “I will gladly undertake it.”  It seemed, at least, that Therod-Ton wasn’t going to throw her over the side of the mountain in retaliation for her deceit.

 

“Land him with care when you set him down.”

 

Cipher slowly let out a breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding, and felt the cold night air raise goosebumps on her arms.  “I will, sir,” she promised.  This, at least, was a pledge she would try to hold to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Cipher's empathy for Bas-Ton's family, and the damage his cover has inflicted on them, is real. Bas-Ton's whole story made me think of this: http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2014/08/25/the-spy-who-loved-me-2
> 
> 2) I had much of Vector ad Paha's post-wedding talk planned out weeks ago, and I was very happy to finally be able to incorporate it into the story, with some edits and final touches! This was a great part of the story line.


	23. The Voss Conspiracy

“It’s a shame about the Gormak, and the ship,” Vector said as they watched the flames mounting into the sky from what had once been the vessel of Albathius, before he became the Shining Man, abandoned in a rock-ringed glen of the Nightmare Lands.  An outcast Gormak had laid claim to the ship, disrupting the self-destruct sequence that Albathius had set before walking out of the Nightmare Lands and into Voss history.  In exchange for the salvaged information with Cipher, the Gormak had wanted to study under the Shining Man, to learn directly from him rather than the holorecordings he had left behind.  He hadn’t taken the news of the Shining Man’s death particularly well, and had destroyed the ship as well as himself in the process of trying to eliminate Albathius’ records.  “But that holodisc…" mused Vector, "damaged or not, it’ll be a treasure trove of intelligence on the conspirators.”

 

“It’s a good lead,” Cipher agreed, “but we still don’t know what the Shining Man was doing here in the first place.”  She glanced skyward through the grotesquely knotted branches of the forbidding black trees, clinging together densely outside this strange glade called the Chamber of Ashes.  It was still before midday, but the season ushered night in early, and the dank and ominous trees supported an unsettling darkness even when the sun was well overhead.  “Let’s keep moving,” she recommended tensely.  “It’s a long way back and camping out one night here was more than enough for me.”

 

“Gladly.  This place…the colors scream sour here, and it smells of cacophony,” Vector replied with a shudder.  “We do not marvel that these lands cause insanity.  We _do_ marvel that the Shining Man survived here three months.”

 

“And even he wasn’t untouched – his last transmission indicated that his mind was becoming affected by the Nightmare Lands,” Cipher considered as they walked.  “He counseled the Star Cabal, too, that it was too severe a location for training new members to resist the Force.”

 

“Suggesting that the chaos of the Nightmare Lands is somehow Force-related,” mused Vector.  “A direct manifestation of the Dark Side?”

 

“Your guess is as good as mine on that one,” Cipher shrugged, leading them aside from the faintest of tracks worn through the sickly grass to skirt a thicket of wickedly thorny shrubs.  “I don’t pretend to know anything about the Force, or how the Sith use it.  But clearly, that was only a secondary part of his mission.  His focus, before he martyred himself, was still that homemade scroll with the false prophecy.  That is what he spent three months perfecting…and we’re still no closer to knowing what that was.”

 

“We’ll find out what the Star Cabal is hiding here,” assured Vector.  “We’ll find them.  We’ll stop them.  That’s what’s important.” 

 

His face snapped towards the harsh and eerie sound of some creature, neither small nor distant, screaming in wild anguish amongst the rocks and shrubs somewhere to their left.  The sound died – perhaps the creature had died as well – and in the unearthly hush followed, he added, “That and leaving the Nightmare Lands well behind us.”

 

“Afraid the madness of the ruins is starting to get to you?” Cipher asked with a half-smirk over her shoulder just before sliding down a short slope of slick rock.  The forest well deserved its name, but a little bit of humor, even forced, did a fair job of pushing away, if only temporarily, the incessant downward pull of dread the blasted lands invoked.

 

“No, but we see no particular need to stay any longer to test our limits,” Vector replied dryly as he skidded down beside her.  “You?”

 

Vector had acquired a habit of sometimes walking a pace or two behind her, slightly to one side.  Initially, it had been the easiest way to follow where her missions led her, but at some point it had transitioned to being a means of surreptitiously observing her, taking his cues from his increasingly adroit ability to read the nuances and fluctuations in her aura.  It was not, either, a disappointing consideration that it enabled him the pleasure of simply letting his eyes rest on her, without appearing to stare.

 

But in the past two days, his watchfulness had been somewhat more overt, and she had noticed.  Something in his voice as he asked his one-word question jostled at her mind, and she turned on the ball of her foot, walking backwards a few steps over a span of clear and barren ground, to look him in the face as she replied, “Perfectly fine.  No madness here.”

 

Vector made no answer but a nod, and Cipher stopped before him, bringing him up short.

 

“But you seem concerned that there _would_ be,” she deduced.  “Not you, but me.” She leveled her gaze at him.  “Explain, please.”

 

Vector, dismayed and nonplussed, averted his face for a moment, briefly considering offering up some excuse or prevarication – the wild and sinister environment, the smell of evil decay, the bloated trees and blighted vegetative growths, the hellish shrieking of creatures undefined and distorted  – all together these things offered up a miasmatic horror and disgust that would prey on the imagination of any being that had a mind worth losing.  But he knew he would not lie to her.

 

“Not madness,” he said at length.  “Not the Nightmare Lands, at least.  But – your wedding.”

 

Paha was puzzled by the cryptic comment.  “But I thought that was all settled,” she answered, genuinely confused.

 

“We did, too, until, after we left, we learned more about it, and what the name of the ceremony is.”

 

“If they don't call it a wedding,” Paha asked pragmatically, “then what else would it be?”

 

Vector shifted his weight and folded his arms.  “They call it the Rite of Ardor.”

 

“Rather poetic,” Paha observed.  “But you – of everyone I’ve ever met! – aren’t the type to be troubled about some figurative language.  Out with it.”

 

“It isn't just a ceremony,” he explained.  “It is a full rite.”

 

“I don't see the difference, but clearly, the Voss do,” Paha said.  “And that difference is...?”

 

“The ceremony is the form, the rite is the function,” Vector distinguished the two glibly, but as he launched into the description of his discovery, he found his fluency faltering slightly.  “The function of the Rite of Ardor is to… awaken, we would say, the feelings of desire between the two who are joined through it.  It isn’t just a ceremony, it’s a matter of Voss mysticism, and as true and as unquestioned as a Mystic's vision never being wrong.  Passions are suppressed until the rite,” he hesitated momentarily, “um, _unleashes_ them.”

 

The ensuing silence was broken by Paha's very faint “ahhh” of understanding, a breath just barely given voice.

 

“So _this_ ,” she said, “is why you have been hovering the past two days.”

 

“We weren't aware we were hovering.”

 

Paha made a small dismissive wave of her hand, indicating she had no need for the implied apology, and lightly asked instead, “And what is your impression?  Have I resisted Scorpio's aggression chemicals and Intelligence's brainwashing just to fall victim to Voss Force manipulations?  Do I appear to be in danger of flinging myself precipitously into Phi-Ton's arms the moment we get back to Voss-Ka?”

 

There was a bit of a dance in her eyes, but for all that, there was no mistaking the sight of an underlying current of gravity in her mien, despite the facetiousness of her voice and words.

 

Vector's lips turned in a small smile as, with a short exhalation of amusement, he closed his eyes briefly and shook his head.  “No," he said quietly as he looked at her again.  “We have learned to know better.  But we are not above wondering if he won't try to fling himself into _yours_.”

 

Struck by this consideration, Paha's wan smile limped from her face.  She spent a few moments lost in grave supposition, then mused, “The way you described the Rite of Ardor, it implies that sexual desire is essentially non-existent until the ceremony is completed.”

 

“That was our impression as well, yes.”

 

“No teenagers sneaking off to a convenient shed, or arranging to meet in a secluded grove of trees, or smuggling someone through a bedroom window at night?”

 

“You are giving us rather interesting ideas about your youth,” Vector observed before admitting, “But as for the Voss, we weren't given that level of detail.  Our guess is that it is rather rare.  Given the importance of the family unit for the Voss, it is not surprising that there would be practices in place to ensure their stability.”  He seemed poised to offer additional speculations on the societal usefulness of mystical enforcement of such a contract.

 

“But – hold a moment! – but that means,” Paha interrupted, wavering between aghast disbelief and wondering consternation, “that Phi-Ton, right now, is, for the first time in his life, trying to understand and figure out how to address the sorts of urges most of the rest of the galaxy works through at the age of thirteen?  Or sixteen?  Or whenever?”

 

With a contemplative nod and a slight shrug of his shoulders, Vector answered, “For the Voss, ‘whenever’ seems to be concurrent with the rite.”

 

“‘A child no longer,’” Paha quoted the ceremony vows softly, almost to herself.  She pressed her gloved fingertips into her brow.  “Oh, stars above, that poor kid.  What was his uncle thinking?”

 

“Perhaps,” Vector offered, “exactly as he said: to honor the promises Bas-Ton made, and to give the assistance you required in the fastest way possible with the smallest amount of fuss.”

 

“By prostituting his own nephew?” Paha gave a scornful toss of her head and made a derisive noise, and in a rather jaded voice, added, “Compared to Voss-Ka, the Nightmare Lands aren't looking quite so bad.”

 

With closed eyes and an exasperated sigh, she hugged her arms across her torso and pinched the bridge of her nose with the fingertips of one hand, while Vector mentally tallied the amalgamation of signals that tripped through her aura in confused mosaics of light and chemistry - frustration and disgust, pity and annoyance, and a level of empathetic distress that might have been for him, for Phi-Ton, or for them both. As culturally interesting, and politically important, as Voss was, he was beginning to wish they had never set foot on the planet.

 

“What will you do?” he inquired softly.

 

Paha raised her head to look at him, and he realized that he had not noticed earlier the deep impressions of exhaustion cutting dark half-moons below her eyes and scraping lines of tension in the muscles of her jaw and mouth.  “What can I do,” she asked, “except avoid him as much as possible, and hope we will leave here soon?”

 

\- - - -

 

Cipher wasn’t ashamed to express her relief at emerging from the Nightmare Lands in the late afternoon, not far from where they had left their speeders and supplies almost two full days before.  A strong push would return them to Voss-Ka proper by midnight, so Vector was, initially, briefly surprised when she called a premature halt to their journey to make camp.   But it made sense, he realized a moment later.  If they strolled into Voss-Ka at such a late hour, where would she be expected to sleep?  She had offered no additional information regarding the exact progression of her supposed wedding night, and he didn’t intend to ask, either.  He found he didn’t need to, even before she had extracted from him his discovery of the true nature of the Rite of Ardor.  After all, at her own decree she was spending this night, and had spent the night before, exposed to the creeping frosts of a Voss autumn, beside him in an inconvenient tent, instead of in the comfort of a warm bed beside her lawfully-wedded husband. If he was looking for an answer, that was more than enough.

 

Taking a small metal pot from the coals of the fire, Cipher poured hot water into a bowl over something that had come powdered in a packet and handed to Vector.

 

“I’m not sure it’s food,” she offered, “but it’s nutritious.  Or so I’ve been told.”

 

“Grated chanlon soup, with a hint of durasteel,” Vector determined after a tentative sip.  “We thought Intelligence was granted the higher end of Imperial rations.”

 

“I think these _are_ ,” Cipher answered, stirring a second bowl.

 

“We cringe to think what the enlisted ranks must eat, then.”

 

“Well, at least this isn’t buried in Doctor Lokin’s spices.  Although that might actually make it better.”

 

Vector looked up from his bowl.  “We thought you _liked_ Mirialan cuisine.”

 

“Not exactly,” Paha admitted.  “But since Lokin keeps overwriting Toovee’s meal program every time I reset it, I’ve learned to not hate it, anyway.  We’ve gone back and forth so many times it’s a wonder Toovee can even boil water without burning it.”

 

When Vector stopped laughing, he replied, “We never knew!  But then,” he added, “that is one of the things we love best when we are with you.  When someone becomes a Joiner, their knowledge and experience becomes part of the hive collective.  We know everything about them.  You, on the other hand – we only know what you share with us.  We will never know everything.  There is always something new to learn.  Something new to discover.”

 

Paha smiled at him through the steam rising from her soup, then raised her bowl.  “To new discoveries, then,” she praised.

 

He responded by raising his bowl.  “To us.”

 

“It really is awful, isn’t it?” Paha made a face after she took the mouthful required by the toast.

 

“We’re not sure we’ve ever had anything quite this terrible,” Vector promptly agreed. "And in the course of diplomatic meetings, we've often found ourselves forced to eat some very unique foods."

 

Later, they lay curled together in a nest of thin, heat-reflective sheets inside a minuscule thermal shelter, barely big enough to hold them both, and the scents of their bodies entwined with the acrid aftertaste of the bitter rations.  Paha was already asleep, and Vector, seeing by the dim firelight cast through the tent wall how the peace of rest was at work to lighten the purple shadows of fatigue from beneath her eyes, quelled his wish to wake her to his desire.  He hugged her warmth to him and reflected again that these strange moments of tranquility, indeed, more than answered any question he might ever have had.

 

\- - - -

 

As befit a Dawn Herald, Vector was already up when Cipher awoke, and he handed her a bowl as she emerged from the shelter.

 

“We’re afraid breakfast is no better than dinner,” he apologized, “but it will serve for now.”

 

“No temptation to linger over the meal, I suppose,” she said, “when duty calls.”

 

As if on cue, her holo chirped.

 

“Daughter of my family,” greeted Therod-Ton.  “Forgive this demand.  The interpreters of prophecy contacted.  They wish to give a message.  The interpreters have been watching you and the Nightmare Lands.  They say the Chamber of Ashes was set ablaze.”

 

Cipher shifted her weight uneasily.  Forget about how much damage one person could do to a single family; she now wondered if she should be asking how much damage one person could do to a whole culture.  Considering the Shining Man, that had the potential to be an awful lot.  Destroying a sacred Voss ruin would certainly fall into the category of a ‘diplomatic incident.’

 

“They say a prophecy speaks of this.  Of you,” continued Therod-Ton.  “You will meet the Three – those who govern Voss.”

 

“A prophecy,” repeated Cipher, stunned at words so contrary to what she had expected, “about me?  I don’t understand – what prophecy?  Why do the Three care?”

 

“I do not know,” answered Therod-Ton with his customary seriousness.  “The Three await you in the capitol.  I am proud of you, my kin.”

 

Cipher looked up at Vector as the holocall ended.  “Therod-Ton might be proud of me,” she said, “but not all prophecies are _good_.”

 

“The capitol!” said Vector thoughtfully.  “Many Diplomatic Service members have been to Voss, but few have been inside the capitol, and fewer still have met the Three.  It is an honor, so Therod-Ton may well be proud of it.  And if a Mystic has seen that you would burn the Chamber of Ashes, then it can’t be questioned.  It was destined to happen.”

 

“Absolving me from prosecution?”

 

“Something like that.”

 

“Let’s hope so.”

 

\- - - -

 

“You walk among Voss.  You are not Voss.  You share tea with low-born families and Mystics,” observed Sonn-Vi, one of the Three who ruled Voss.  “Your arrival burned the Chamber of Ashes.  A prophecy speaks of these things.”

 

Cipher looked up at the three faces that stared back at her impassively from the raised dais and stone table behind which they stood – two men, one woman, the rulers of Voss – and waited with silent patience. 

 

“The one prophesized must be brought before the Three,” added Gunta-Mer.  “Given attention and honest aid.”

 

The woman, Non-Ji, broke in.  “Do you believe in prophecy, outsider?”

 

Did she?  At her core, Paha found the idea of her future being fated distasteful and disturbing.  What was the point in wanting to control your own life, your own destiny, if it had all been written out according to dictates of the Force, or a fortune-teller, no matter how adept?  But her own brushes with foreboding dreams and divinatory visions had given her much to think about, even to the point of undertaking the Mystics’ trials to get just a glimpse of what lay ahead.

 

“In my time here,” she answered, “I have learned to trust your ways and accept your teachings.”

 

“You are wise,” replied Gunta-Mer.

 

“The prophecy that fits you fit the Shining Man,” said Sonn-Vi.  “Perhaps both were prophesied.  Perhaps one is false.  We aid you as we aided him.  If one is false, this meeting insures destiny.”

 

Cipher gave that careful consideration.  The Shining Man had gone through rites of initiation into the Voss culture, while she – she paused, struck as the comparison unfolded in her mind.  She had gone through the Mystics’ trials, arguably the most Voss of all Voss rituals.  She had gone to the Wellspring of the Shrine of Healing, just as the Shining Man had done.  She had become Voss, just as the Shining Man had done, as well – just in a somewhat different manner.  She, too, had gone to the Nightmare Lands, to the Chamber of Ashes, where the Shining Man had set it ablaze before the destruction was stopped by the lone Gormak.  The Shining Man’s vitalicron reported that the scroll he bore – the false prophecy he spent three months crafting – spoke of the Shining Man himself.  Funny that something so fake could yet prove itself so true as to be applicable to her as well.  Tricky things, prophecies.  And if the Three were meeting with her now, then they must, as well, have met with the Shining Man.

 

“I think I understand,” she said at last.  “What did you meet with him about?”

 

“The Shining Man told us the secrets of your galaxy.  He proposed we make no alliance with outsiders for three thousand days.  In return, he promised the Gormak will be eliminated,” Sonn-Vi said.

 

Full-scale genocide of the Gormak.  The Star Cabal certainly knew how to motivate an asset – and the Cabal, no doubt, had the power to back up such a promise.  But what did they get out of it?

 

“He promised our world will be free from outsiders,” added Gunta-Mer.  “No new ships will enter our system.”

 

“He promised the Republic and the Empire will cease to exist,” said Non-Ji.  “We promised the Shining Man to ally with none.”

 

That was it.  All of the subterfuge and deceptions, from the fake prophecy down to the Shining Man’s self-imposed martyrdom, and Bas-Ton’s hidden identity down to Cipher’s bogus marriage, were all to remove the Voss and their Mystics from the galactic dejarik table arrayed with Republic and Imperial pieces.  But the Voss weren’t just neutral, as they had flattered themselves they were.  Their fear of the Gormak had, in truth, ensured that they had picked a side already.

 

“All this time, we’ve been trying to win you over, and all this time,” Cipher marveled, suddenly not caring if they understood what she were about to say, nor if they found it offensive, “you were allied with the conspirators.”

 

“For three thousand days,” Sonn-Vi replied, somewhat defensively.  “We were offered much for little.”

 

As she recounted the conversation to Vector later as they left the capitol, she threw her hands up in a gesture of dismissal.

 

“I was wrong to call them innocent,” she confessed.  “The better word for it is _gullable_.  And they don’t even care!  Clearly, the Three suspect they may have been duped: Sonn-Vi said that if the Star Cabal is prophesied to succeed, my knowing the connection between the Voss and the Star Cabal will change nothing.  If I am the one to succeed, then he said ‘their part is finished’ – whatever that is supposed to mean. And they are yet completely content to sit back and let it play out without investigating the matter themselves!”

 

“You didn’t tell them that the prophecy the Shining Man brought from the Chamber of Ashes is fake?” Vector inquired as they passed over one of the slender pedestrian bridges that arched over the ravines between the terraces of the mountain.

 

“I didn’t see the point,” Cipher sighed, stopping and leaning on the balustrade, looking down into the depths of the chasm. “Their whole society is based on the idea that all prophecies are true.  Why would they take the word of an outsider over their most important and longest-held values?  By my count, I’ve destroyed Bas-Ton, destroyed his family, and destroyed a sacred ruin here.  If I can leave without destroying their entire way of life, I’ll call that a win.”

 

“They gave the Shining Man their full ear,” Vector objected.  “If they felt bound by the prophecy to hear him out, then why would they not offer the same to you?  By their own admission, you fulfilled the prophecy as much as the Shining Man.”

 

A small, self-satisfied smile flitted over Cipher’s lips and vanished back into seriousness.  “That’s pretty much what I told them.  They gave me their attention, and their honesty, but I hadn’t seen much regarding aid.”

 

“What did you ask for?”

 

“That my Voss family be taken care of after I leave,” she answered, a trickle of self-conscious embarrassment curling through her aura.  “I figured that was the least I could do, given what they’ve lost for my sake.  A father.  A brother.  A son’s peace of mind...”

 

Vector nodded, without drawing additional attention to the matter, sensing that it was somewhat of a sensitive subject for her.  She had never, after all, had to concern herself with the well-being of family members before.

 

“And that was it,” she waved a hand in a summary gesture.  “They said my time on Voss was over, said I had been healed and remade here, and requested that I remember their people.  In truth, I don’t think I’ve ever been told, ‘Get the damn hell off my planet’ quite so politely before.”

 

“Then we are ready to go?”

 

“Mostly,” she said, and he saw sharp jittery nerves edge through her.  “I have one last thing to take care of.”

 

Vector waited for her on the verandah of the teahouse, thinking over the last time he had stood there and watching her take her leave through the window.  It was cordial, even affectionate, and Therod-Ton seemed to give her a look of meaning as he followed Yana-Ton out of the room, leaving Phi-Ton alone with his wife.  She said something, something sincere and earnest, as she took Phi-Ton’s hand, and then, in one quick motion, stepped forward to give him a brief kiss that was over before Phi-Ton had the chance to register the action. And then she was gone, walking out the door away from her husband and to the man she loved.

 

“I told him what he wanted to hear,” she said quietly, after they had crossed more than half the distance to the Imperial shuttle in silence.  Paha knew Vector wouldn’t ask, but she wanted him to know.  “Trust in the Mystics.  If they see me here again, I suppose that means one day I must return.  If not – well, his future is his own.  He can make his choices.”

 

“You may claim you are no great diplomat,” Vector offered, watching the turbulence of emotion chiming beneath her possessed exterior.  Relief, regret, guilt, triumph – so many colors in such a resilient frame.  “But we think you take to it much better than you give yourself credit for.”

 

“I’ve had a good tutor to follow,” she said, her mood settling and brightening as she gave him a smile.  “What was it you said – reaching out to people, synthesizing their needs?"

 

“For all that, we are still glad you didn’t feel it necessary to synthesize _all_ of Phi-Ton’s needs.  Even diplomacy has its limits,” Vector answered.  “And now?  The usual reporting back to Headquarters?”

 

“We know why the Star Cabal was here,” Cipher nodded, “but it has been a dead end in terms of tracing them back to their base of operations, or uncovering what their next move will be.  We have exactly zero leads, unless Keeper – ” 

 

She broke off, and Vector offered encouraging comfort. “Keeper may be awake now.  And don't forget the Shining Man's holodisc, even if it is damaged. We can hope for… well, _something_.”

 

“At this point?  _Anything_.”

 

\- - - -

 

Contacting Watcher Three did little to provide an improved perspective on their prospects, either for her own mission, or for Intelligence as a whole.  Nervous and uncommunicative, Three advised Cipher to hold off on submitting her official report, and to return promptly back to headquarters.  “Orders from above,” he said.  “Orders from the Sith.”

 

“We’ve never seen him act like that,” Vector remarked with wary concern for the cause.

 

“I’m sure he’s merely distracted,” Lokin offered.

 

“I would be distracted, too, if the Sith were ordering me to recall all Intelligence personnel,” Cipher said grimly.  “I’m not particularly reassured by this development.”

 

“But what choice do we have?” Lokin pointed out.  “None – so we had better head home.   But if it is possible for a small trip aside – ”

 

“Let me guess,” Cipher filled in the blank.  “Project Protean?”

 

“I have the location of their headquarters,” Lokin reported, his voice matter-of-fact.  “Protean’s main laboratory is on a planetoid in the Subterrel sector.  Security is tight, but not impervious.”

 

“Subterrel? That's hardly a small side trip," Cipher frowned. Subterrel was on the Outer Rim, on the opposite end of Hutt Space from their current location. "But the Sith are just going to have to accept the fact that engine trouble happens. Now, what’s the tactical situation? I'm prepared to give you backup.”

 

“Not this time, Cipher,” Lokin shook his head.  “This is personal.”

 

“Of course it is.  It’s personal for you, it’s personal for Vector, and that makes it personal for me, too.  And truth be told,” Cipher admitted, “I can’t say I’m eager to hurry back to Dromund Kaas if Intelligence Headquarters is in the hands of the Sith.”

 

“We understand, but we agree with Doctor Lokin,” Vector interposed.  “We can’t know the intentions of the Sith, but if the Dark Council is tracking your movements, and you are directly involved in a strike against an Imperial target, even a secret one, they will use it as a charge against you.”

 

“In regards to treason, there isn’t a particular difference between my crew’s involvement and my personal involvement,” Cipher protested.

 

“Yes, there is,” Vector pointed out quietly.  “If you are not in the middle of it, you can plead ignorance.”

 

“You mean incompetence!” Cipher argued.

 

“Ignorance or incompetence, you stand a better chance under that than treason,” Lokin added.  “Master Vector has a point.”

 

Cipher folded her arms, trying not to sound entirely fractious.  “I think the Sith execute as many for incompetence as they do willful betrayal, you know.  And this is _me_ we are talking about here.  When it comes to Sith excuses for charging me with treason, the bantha is out of the barn on that one.  Out of the barn, on a ship, and five systems away, even.”

 

Lokin opened his mouth to press the point, then caught sight of Vector folding his arms with equal obstinacy, and abruptly shut it again.

 

“We are aware of your history,” Vector replied with measured patience.  “We would just as soon not add yet another weight to the side of the balance that does not bear _you_.”

 

"At what expense?" she countered.  "You really think that I am comfortable with the idea of sitting around in idle immunity while you are executed for treason if you get caught?  You think I'll let you hang alone?"

 

Her valiant willingness to share his fate touched him, and he grimaced slightly, torn between his frustration over her stubbornness and his appreciation for her concern for him.  Concern that she now openly avowed in front of Doctor Lokin, Vector noted, who, it appeared, had the perspicacity to detect a lover's spat in whatever form it took, and had the good sense to keep out of it.

 

"No," Vector answered crisply, "We think you would come rescue us before we are executed.  Which is all the more reason why we need you to stay behind."

 

“But –” Cipher began.

 

“Agent.”  The quietness of Vector’s voice as he interrupted her was more penetrating than if he had overridden her with volume.  Her objection died on her lips as he levelly returned her direct gaze.  After a few seconds, he stated firmly, “No.”  Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Please.”

 

It was but three words, but there was a mute eloquence in the dark depths of his eyes, and spelled out in the tense set of his jaw.  _Let us, for once, keep this load from falling on your shoulders.  This is our burden; let us carry it._

 

Lokin leaped into the silence before the dispute had the opportunity to erupt again.  “I’ve arranged transportation for Vector and myself; he deserves to know the truth about his victimizers.  I plan to learn exactly why they tried to kill me, and to recover their data on Master Vector.  The rest we can play by ear.”

 

Cipher turned her gaze to Vector, who gave her an assenting nod, then she fixed her eye, scarlet and intense, back on Doctor Lokin.

 

“I want that man back in one piece,” she commanded authoritatively.  “Understood?”

 

“Of course,” Lokin said genially, masterfully keeping his composure.  “We’ll set out right away –” Lokin cut himself off as his eyes darted between Cipher and Vector, detecting the reserves of emotion between the two, and he recalled they had barely been back on board more than an hour.  “By which I mean,” he concluded, “tomorrow.  And we’ll see you again when this is over.”

 

\- - - -

 

A brief time later, Vector stepped onto the bridge to where Paha sat in the command chair in a surprisingly casual attitude, with one foot tucked beneath her and her fingers wrapped around a mug of something wafting an appetizing aromatic steam into the air.  Her hair was still damp from her shower, and her native fragrance, refreshingly unadulterated by Voss incense or the corrupting vapors of the Nightmare Lands, stretched across the space between them invitingly.  Despite her newest apprehensions, she gave him a smile, serenely welcoming, and he could see her compartmentalize her frustrations and concerns, locking them away in a place where they would not interfere with her focus on him.  Without a word, he stepped into the space behind the command chair, and, laying his hands on her shoulders, gently began to work the knots out of the taut muscles of her neck.  She closed her eyes and bowed her head, exhaling a wordless noise of intermingled pleasure and pain that called out to his every nerve and muscle for a response.

 

After a moment, she gave her voice some clarity, and reported, “We're on course for Vaiken Spacedock, there isn't another ship on the radar for a hundred parsecs, and,” she added, wincing a little as he worked over a particularly contrary spot, “the kids are all asleep.  Or, at least, in bed.  Whichever; I don’t care."

 

He laughed softly over her description of the crew, and bent down to bestow a leisurely kiss on the back of her neck, his lips ghosting lightly over her skin as he asked, “And the bridge?”

 

"Of all the many wonderful technological advancements of Imperial scientists," opined Paha pleasantly, rolling her shoulders into the pressure of the fingers that relaxed her at the same time they emphasized an increasing tension deep within her, "I think there is none truly so amazing or so useful as auto-pilot.”

 

She reclined her head back to meet his lips with her own, and his hands glided down the front of her jacket from her shoulders over her chest, relishing the movement of her bosom beneath his palms as she drew a deep, contented breath.  Suddenly side-stepping the chair, he seized her hand and plucked her from her seat and into his waiting arms, and as she landed there she kissed him with an ardent fieriness that was almost fevered in its passion.  Vector saw no need to waste his lips in speech when they could be far more agreeably employed, so without preamble, he pulled her body against his, and led their ungainly dance across the floor.  

 

They stumbled through the bridge bulkhead port into the corridor, where but two steps fetched them against the door to her quarters, and Paha fumbled behind her back to enter in the code to unlock it.  Too enrapt to pay it much heed, the door opened abruptly, nearly causing them to fall through the empty gap where it had stood, and Vector caught both her and his staggering steps at the same moment, just as her fingers traced along the wall, flailing to re-engage the lock on the door that hissed quietly shut behind them.  Satisfied that their seclusion was secured, she clung to him with both arms, eager and giddy.

 

He slid his fingertips down the length of her back, under the flared edge of her uniform jacket skirt, to where he could fill each cupped hand with the firm roundness of her buttocks.  Nudging aside her leg with his knee, he hitched her weight closer and wedged his thigh firmly between her own, simultaneously steadying her balance and rocking her toward him with the one strong, smooth motion of his arms, and she inhaled, a faint sigh that was a small, soft birdlike sound, feeling the pulse of her heart reverberating through her nerves down to the heated knot of yearning that ached below the pit of her stomach.  His hand traveled down the slope of her thigh, hooking beneath it just behind her knee and hoisting it alongside his waist as she rolled her hips against him, brushing the pressure of his desire and prompting his breath to catch in his throat, not at all far from where her lips caressed his neck.

 

Her unbuckled belt dropped to the floor, and she threw her jacket down after it before reaching to loosen his, tugging the ensnaring sleeves over his hands as she cast it aside.  Freed from the encumbrance of his clothing, he returned one arm behind her to support the rhythm of her motions while his other hand slipped below the unfastened waistband of her pants, teasing her into twitching gasps with a touch that was both demanding and delicate.

 

"Careful," she whispered, and he could hear the breathless, dizzy delight in her hushed voice.  "Don't spend me all at once.  Save some for yourself."

 

"We won't require long," he answered hoarsely.

 

"Is that so?" she asked archly, suspending her hands from where they had busied themselves around his belt.  "That almost sounds like a challenge."

 

The exasperation in his responding sigh sounded more like a growl than a breath and, low against her ear he replied, "You wouldn't be so cruel as to torment us further."

 

"Further?"

 

"Over a week on Voss, and as long without touching you?" Vector pointed out, his voice low with vehemence and broken with the punctuation of the kisses he rained down along the edge of her ear.  "Demands of the mission, separate rooms at the Shrine, and two nights beside you in a one-person tent, and yet unable to lay a hand on you as the wife of another man!”

 

“I am no man’s wife now!” she gasped, trembling in answer to the actions of his fingers, and there, again, Vector was granted the briefest of glances at some odd, secret thing, like a wish buried far down in the hidden caches of her heart and aura, that he had glimpsed once before.  Although it was less obscured at this moment than it had ever previously been, his own scattered attention was entirely incapable of assessing or comprehending it.  She flung aside the military tank and undergarments she customarily wore beneath her jacket, and added, almost in defiance, “So touch me as you wish!”

 

His hands grasped at her flushed skin, and he pulled her bodily from where he braced her against the bulkhead wall, almost carrying her the few steps to the bed, where their final pieces of clothing were cast away as they tumbled together onto the smooth surface of the duvet.  Before the bounce of the bed from their landing had even died away, Paha had wrapped a bare leg around him, her body demanding the heat of his touch and inviting it to her through the guidance of her hands, arms, and thighs.  To the alluring demand of her desire, singing to him in tones of the most lustrous excitement, he could offer no resistance, even if it had occurred to him to make an attempt; he found himself struggling to merely maintain some degree of control over his burning eagerness and he strained to hold back, to enter her with his customary slow and easing tenderness.

 

She raised her hips in response, the action both an appeal and an insistence, drawing him in with turbulent haste and causing her to utter a sound so rapturous and so enticing that he made a single motion vigorously within her purely in hopes of hearing it again.  He was not disappointed, and as he repeated it with energy, she flung an arm over his neck, clinging to him as she buried her face his shoulder, muffling her gasps in the hollow there where he could yet still hear the sounds and feel the vibration of her vocalizations flickering over his skin in waves.  She met and matched him, movement for movement, and he had not been incorrect in his assessment that he would not, indeed, require long: Her urgent passion, pulling him tightly in to her most sensitive and ardent depths, drove him relentlessly to his edge.  Almost before he was aware, he clutched her convulsively, gasping as he shook, and he was still crushing her to his sweat-slicked body when she arched abruptly against him, with the fragmentary cries of her release fluttering over him like petals torn from a flower.

 

He hugged her closely as her spasms passed, rocking her body gently with his, wishing there would never be a need to disrupt the euphoric peace that settled on them in the wake of their spent desire.  But perhaps the challenges and conflicts of the galaxy outside this room served their purpose, by highlighting, though their vexation and perverseness, how sacred these treasured moments truly were.  He kissed her softly on her temple and she stirred to raise her head, giving him a dreamy-eyed smile while nestling her hips still more closely against his, preserving the moment of their joining by being unwilling to let him go.

 

Time glided silently past, and still they remained entwined quietly together.  Vector had come to value, almost to the point of reverence, these tranquil, unhurried moments when he could watch at leisure the languidly shifting shades of fulfillment in Paha’s aura, often not without the pride and gratification over the role he had in their appearance.  He softly murmured, “We think we could watch your soul for hours, beloved, and never tire of staring at its colors.”

 

“You,” she answered with drowsy contentment, “may watch my soul, my heart, or whatever else of mine you like, for life if it suits you.”

 

She meant nothing by it but pleasure and compliment, but in her unguarded and indulgent state, forever transparent where Vector was concerned, she paid little attention to what messages her aura might reveal over and above the face value of her words.  Vector, engaging in his fondest habit of observation, saw much more than she was aware she had stated, and, for the first time, he began to have an idea of the source of that little glimmer he had caught sidelong glimpses of, where it lay covert and latent in some obscure corner of Paha’s mind, so sequestered that he wondered if perhaps she were not even aware of it herself.

 

As she dozed in his arms, he lay awake for some while, meditating over the pieces of a little puzzle that he was just beginning to suspect he could solve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. A bit of a delay getting this chapter written - last weekend my husband and I celebrated our first wedding anniversary. He's a horror fan, and I was stunned that although he'd read Dracula, Frankenstein, and just about everything my Edgar Allen Poe, he had never read Lovecraft - so I loaned him a copy a month or two ago, and for our Paper Anniversary, I took us on a literary tour of Lovecraft locations (Not on the tour: Innsmouth, Arkham, The Mountains of Madness, or R'lyeh). It was a perfect fall day! 
> 
> 2\. Poor Phi-Ton. Seriously. He gets used pretty terribly, and gets essentially zero compensation for his heartaches.


	24. The Speed With Which the World Shatters

“Agent, I’ve seen you have some crackpot ideas,” snarked Kaliyo, folding her arms in the doorway, “but this one just might be the craziest.  Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

 

“No,” admitted Cipher mischievously, “but admit it, you’re curious.”

 

Kaliyo rolled her eyes.  “Curious is not the same as suicidal.”

 

“Afraid you can’t handle being backup on this one?” Cipher challenged.

 

Kaliyo straightened, instantly indignant.  Manipulating Kaliyo was so easy that Cipher actually felt a little guilty for doing it.  “Screw you sideways, bitch,” she snapped.  “There is no fight I can’t handle and you know it.”

 

“That’s more like it,” Cipher replied with a flash of the briefest of grins.  “There’s the Kaliyo I know.”

 

Kaliyo glared a few more seconds before replying, and when she did, the flare of anger had vanished from her voice.  “You’re still a bitch,” she emphasized, as if that had been the crux of the discussion.  “I just figured you’d wait until Bugboy and the Old Man were back.  Or at least Temple.  It’s kinda like old times, Agent – you and me, but psychotic assassin droid makes three.  Where did New Girl take off to, anyway?”

 

“Personal stuff,” Cipher answered evasively, sorting through the plugs of a meaty-looking cable with meticulous attention.  “Temple needed a few days.  You know, Scorpio is technically newer than Temple; at least, newer to the crew.  You might need to adjust your appellations.”

 

“Scorpio is also centuries old, which hardly makes her either new or a girl,” Kaliyo pointed out.  “This is still a bad idea.”

 

Cipher shrugged as she began connecting the cable leads to the ship’s console in the engine room.  “Come on, Kaliyo, what’s the worst that could happen?”

 

“Uh, her upgrades override her control codes and she slaughters us and dumps our bodies into space is the first thing that comes to mind.”

 

“Not your preferred method of going out, I take it,” smiled Cipher.  “Pessimist.”

 

“I will die one of two ways: the most epic fight imaginable, or peacefully in bed,” Kaliyo declared.

 

“Peacefully in bed?” Cipher questioned, looking up in surprise.  “I would never have imagined.”

 

“Sandwiched between two men of exceptional sexiness,” Kaliyo detailed.  “Or two women. Or one of each. I'm not picky, except on the sexy part. I’d be pretty damn well at peace then. You?”

 

“No idea,” Cipher replied.  “Honestly, I don’t give it much thought.  In this line of work, the ways to die are many and varied, and I’ve probably used a good half of them on others.  However I go out, I’d prefer it to have minimal fuss, but not be too quick.  I imagine that dying is a rather interesting experience, and since I intend to go through it only once, I’d rather not be distracted in the process by petty things like pain.”  The IX serum had certainly raised her level of tolerance, but she was aware she still had a pain threshold.

 

“You know,” Kaliyo said thoughtfully, “this is the longest I have ever managed to stay with one partner – either I get annoyed with them, or they get sick of me first.”

 

“Are congratulations in order, then?”

 

“I’ll take a bottle of Cerean brandy, if you’ve got one.  But my point is, out of everyone I’ve ever worked with, you take the prize for being the creepiest and most cold-blooded freak of them all.  Dying as an ‘interesting experience?’  Really, agent, you make it sound like a day trip to a museum or something.”  Kaliyo shook her head, marveling.  “I’ve been told I have a death wish; I don’t, I just like to live fast, my way.  But you – you take it to the next level sometimes, you know?”

 

Kaliyo’s blunt observation didn’t bother Cipher the way it once might have, as it would have when she was surrounded by her walls of defensiveness and aloof indifference.  Those walls still existed – they would never not exist – but among her crew, they had largely eroded, folded down and set aside until they were needed again to keep her insulated from the general scorn of the galaxy at large beyond her ship. 

 

“I don’t have a death wish, either,” Cipher replied.  “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

 

“If that’s true,” countered Kaliyo, “then explain again why we are helping an assassin droid who has sworn eternal 'I-hate-yous' to upgrade herself?  It’s not that I don’t appreciate her imaginative descriptions of how she intends to kill each of us in turn; she’s given me some ideas and I think I could learn a lot from her.  But that’s tough to pull off when my guts are splattered all over the deck because she decided to give a practical demonstration.”

 

“Then you’ll just have to take your lessons quickly before she gets that chance,” Cipher looked up with amusement as she finished checking the linkup between the droid and the ship’s computer.  The ship itself had proven inadequate to supply the necessary space and power to support Scorpio’s first attempt at upgrading her programming following her departure from Belsavis, and she had asked Cipher for help, albeit with extreme reluctance.  Although Cipher doubted that gratitude played any major role in Scorpio’s day-to-day functions, she hoped that her willingness for Scorpio’s continued advancement would trigger some minor bit of loyalty circuit in the droid – even if that loyalty was rooted purely in self-interest alone.  Thus Cipher was again plugging Scorpio in to the ship’s consoles – only this time, with the intent to upload her consciousness to the central computer at Intelligence Headquarters.

 

Risky, she knew.  Unleashed in the Intelligence computer, who knew what Scorpio might get up to.  But she was still bound by the control codes to obey Cipher, and if while she was in there, Scorpio happened to get a few glances at whatever classified files she came across, Cipher wasn’t going to complain.  With the Sith apparently encamped at Intelligence, support from the Watchers, and their fathoms of data files, would be scanty.  It wasn’t a bad thing to have an Intelligence pocket encyclopedia on board, even if it were incomplete.

 

And the presence of Sith at Intelligence was no small consideration, either.  By Cipher’s experience, Sith often tended to be brutally effective, but sloppy.  They often came in two flavors: exceptionally paranoid, or wildly hubristic.  Neither condition loaned itself to being particularly adept at handling issues of confidentiality.  The arrogant were dismissive of security concerns, while the secretive lunatics were so obsessive over the multitude of the many unimportant details they insisted on overseeing that they were invariably unable to discern a true threat from the noise and chaff.  That meant that no one had shut down remote access to the Intelligence mainframe, or changed the security access codes.  The Sith had left the door wide open, and Cipher meant to take advantage of it before they thought to send anyone to shut it behind them.

 

“Very well, Scorpio,” she added, turning her attention to the droid, “ship’s power has been rerouted to the comms.  What’s next?”

 

Scorpio had remained scornfully silent during Cipher and Kaliyo’s conversation, disdaining to participate in such idle prattle, but she made an effort and answered, “I upload my consciousness; my body will have minimal functionality while I upgrade.”

 

She had no sooner described her plan than she had put it into action, and her lifeless body froze in place as her consciousness delighted in the power and space of the Intelligence mainframe before setting about the iterative process of integrating her new experiences into her programming. It would take a little time, and Cipher settled in to wait.

 

“You can’t imagine how wonderful it is,” Scorpio said at length, sounding truly happy for the first time in their acquaintance.  “To be remade, with the power of galactic network at your disposal.”

 

“I’ll have to take your word for it,” Cipher answered. She gave the droid a few more minutes, until Scorpio's rather unsettling raptures prompted her to decide that it was more than time to reunite the consciousness to the chassis. Scorpio skimming Intelligence data files had the potential to be useful, browsing the holonet was likely not. “If you’re quite finished, you’d better download back straight off.  You're not in there for a frolic.”

 

“There’s no rush, and I’ve discovered something interesting,” Scorpio replied, a smug pleasure clearly obvious in her tone.  “The restraining codes used on me are tied to my hardware.  Not my consciousness.  So as long as I remain in these databanks, I’m free of your control.”

 

Cipher shifted her weight onto one foot and tried to prevent her uneasiness from openly displaying on her face.  This was what, exactly, had made Belsavis prison so dangerous – a foe that was everywhere, and yet nowhere she could strike.

 

“Told you,” Kaliyo hissed from the doorway in a stage whisper.  She snapped her mouth shut at a quelling glance from Cipher.  Scorpio might be more difficult to manipulate than Kaliyo, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t susceptible to the right kind of leverage, properly applied.

 

“You can remain in the databanks,” Cipher offered, “but you’ll also be limiting your options.  Imperial Intelligence will likely welcome you with open arms, and set you up as the… oh, caretaker, I suppose, of their files.  You’ll stay in one spot, and babysit.  It’ll be like Belsavis all over.  Or,” Cipher shifted her weight to the other foot, “You can return to your body, and continue traveling on the _Phantom_ , with me and the crew.  I’ve shown you things you’d never have seen on your own.  Stay at my side willingly, and I’ll show you more.  I’ll give you some time to think it over.”

 

Cipher turned on her heel and strode towards the door, pausing dramatically just as she was poised to cross into the corridor.  It was a silly gesture - with Scorpio residing between the Imperial mainframe and the ship's computer, she was, technically, everywhere at once - but there was a theatrical quality to turning her back on the droid's discarded body that provided a certain amount of emphasis.

 

“One other thing you might want to consider, Scorpio,” she tossed back over her shoulder.  “Right now, the Sith haven’t locked down the Intelligence mainframe.  But Watcher Three has told me not to submit my reports, and I am sure I’m not the only one that has been warned off.  In fact, I’d venture to guarantee that every agent in the field has gone radio silent since their last check-in, which means that I am the only one connected right now.  How long do you expect that will go unnoticed?  And how long after that do you think it will take for the Sith to discover your existence there?  How long before they cut all access to the mainframe and trap you there for good?”

 

Turning back to the open hatch door, Cipher waved a hand nonchalantly as she passed the bulkhead wall.  “But you can stay there.  I’m sure you’ll be fine.  Bored, perhaps, but fine.”

 

“Wait.”  Scorpio’s cold, impassive voice called around the corner with an imperative insistence that, if Cipher didn’t know better, might have bordered on almost desperate.  Cipher counted to five, just to let Scorpio squirm, then leaned her head around the corner, to peer back into the engine room where the conversational fragment of Scorpio’s consciousness spoke from the computer console. 

 

“You make an interesting proposal,” Scorpio conceded grudgingly.  “And your logic is… surprisingly sound.”  The tone of Scorpio’s voice indicated the admission cost her some considerable amount of pride.  Cipher waited expectantly, and was rewarded as a glow kindled in the black eye sockets of the droid’s metal body.

 

“I will accompany you,” Scorpio said, raising her head.  “Thank you for assisting in my upgrade.”

 

“Any time, I’m sure,” Cipher replied with galling politeness and a smile.

 

\- - - -

 

The chirping sound of the ship’s door lock, followed by the soft rush of the air pressure equalizing as the hatch door hissed open, met Cipher’s ear.

 

“The bridge is yours, Ensign,” Cipher ordered as she rose from the command chair.  There had been but one communiqué from Vector and Lokin, consisting of a single word – _Success_ – and while that was enough to address her wishes for their safe return, it was certainly insufficient to assuage her curiosity.  The speediest transport they could hire hurried them back to Vaiken Spacedock where Cipher waited with the _Phantom_ , and not a moment too soon, as the forces now in charge at Intelligence headquarters were becoming increasingly peremptory in their demands for her return to Dromund Kaas.  Fortunate, indeed, that Kaliyo’s particular array of experiences had taught her how to trip a ship’s internal sensors to register an engine fault by a well-timed choke.  A carefully-worded caution to Toovee to be deferential to any military personnel looking to employ the Spacedock maintenance teams ensured that the _Phantom_ ’s position in the repair list continued to get bumped in favor of the impatient, the arrogant, and the genuinely urgent, and Cipher meticulously timed her apologetic messages to Intelligence to head off accusations of equivocation or duplicity before they took root.

 

“Spin up the engines; we should depart shortly,” Cipher added.  "You can let Dromund Kaas know we're on our way."

 

Temple smiled and replied, “Understood, sir.  The Vaiken maintenance teams are really very efficient, aren’t they?”

 

“Quite so,” Cipher answered, crossing to the door with a measured tread, although her attention, eyes, and heart had already flown ahead of her steps.  “Best in the fleet.”

 

She met Lokin and Vector at the door to the medical bay, which Lokin shut behind them as Vector opened their conference, his voice even and factual.

 

“We have returned from Project Protean.  The task is done.”  He turned towards her as he spoke, and she could see a slight softening of his manner across his face that made her want to take him in her arms.  It couldn’t have been easy, facing down the callous individuals who had prized their research over his personal sovereignty.

 

“It seems,” Doctor Lokin explained, “Protean was based on prior experiments in alien biology.  _My_ prior experiments.  I had no proof until I discovered certain former associates in the Protean lab.”

 

“How, exactly, were you involved in Project Protean’s origins?” Cipher inquired, folding her arms.  She had told Lokin he could keep his secrets, except when it involved sending her into a situation without pertinent information.  She considered that directive to extend to the rest of the crew, in this case particularly Vector, as well.

 

“Some years ago, I worked on Project Harvest.  I had an… attack of conscience.  Yes, I know,” he said in reaction to Cipher’s skeptically raised eyebrow.  “I resigned, and took my research with me, or so I thought.”

 

“Your associates,” Vector specified, “said you left because you wanted more control.”

 

“They would, wouldn’t they?” countered Lokin.  “But they’ve been dealt with, and I’ve ensured they will not misuse my research again.  And in return for my generosity sparing the laboratory, I’ve been appointed unofficial Protean director.  From now on, every experiment, every assay, goes through me.”

 

“That’s quite a victory,” Cipher replied dryly.  “Now why do I suspect you already had a plan for all that authority before you went into this?”

 

“A good scientist, like a good agent, should evaluate options just as much as evidence,” Lokin replied with equanimity.  “Protean serves a function, bringing the benefits of alien biology to all people.  I can supervise from here, and adjust its approach.”

 

“Starting with its work on Joiners,” Vector put in.

 

“Your Protean files have already been deleted, and the Killik experiments stopped,” Lokin assured.

 

“It’s a start, but not enough,” Cipher averred.  “No more treating people as test subjects.  Reform Protean, Doctor Lokin.  Your job will be to keep an eye on the work there, while I –”

 

“– will keep an eye on me,” finished Lokin.  “I fully understand, and I have no desire to make you into an enemy.”

 

“I didn’t think you did; I just want to ensure we’re all on the same page,” Cipher replied.  She allowed a few seconds to pass before bringing up an entirely separate issue, her voice moderating away from its demanding tone.  “Lokin… there is another matter I should mention to you: I’m afraid that your old associate, the former Cipher Three, is dead.”

 

Lokin raised his chin a little, but generally let his surprise pass unmasked.  “Poor fellow,” he said at length.  “What happened?  I remember him as always being in good health.”

 

“I suppose I would call it an unnatural death,” Cipher clarified, approaching the truth of the matter rather circumspectly.

 

“Surely his cover couldn’t have been blown?  A shame, at so late a stage in his life!”

 

“I’m afraid it was.  He was being tracked by Sith.”

 

“The Sith again,” Vector frowned, puzzled by the evasiveness he saw in Cipher’s aura.  “That would make a murder difficult to prosecute.”

 

“No investigation.  No arrests, and no prosecution,” Cipher shook her head decisively.  Seeing the exchange of confused looks between the two men, she added, “There shouldn’t even be any evidence.”

 

“Cipher,” Lokin said slowly, “You didn’t…”

 

“No, I didn’t,” she replied firmly.  There was a moment of silence during which she could see each of them arrive at their own conclusions.

 

Vector unconsciously straightened his spine as the terrible thought took stronger hold in his mind.  “Ensign Temple?”

 

“She murdered her own father,” marveled Lokin, for once, genuinely shocked.

 

“I would prefer if you didn’t use the word murder to her,” Cipher replied with a wry frown.  “She feels it, I assure you, and I had some work to keep her from suicidally turning herself over to the Sith.  The Sith were hunting him on the charge of secretly harboring a Force-sensitive – Raina, of course – rather than sending her to the academy to be slaughtered by the other acolytes.  It was only a matter of time before they found him, caught him, and tortured him into revealing everything he knew about Raina – and any other secrets he has kept.  She got to him first.  They talked it over, and he,” Cipher paused, shrugging as she drew a long breath, “agreed, apparently, that this was the best course of action.”

 

“He would,” Lokin said, almost to himself.  “I think he would have been proud.  Pleased even.  Going out by his daughter’s hand after seeing her follow in his footsteps; it’s a rather fitting end, don’t you think?  We should all be so lucky, to have someone close by.  To ensure we pass in the company of friends and family, and not alone.  Who knows but old Cipher Three may be the luckiest of all of us?”

 

“Strangely enough, Doctor Lokin makes an interesting and valid point,” Vector nodded as he considered it.  “We will be sure to be careful of what we say around her.”

 

“As will I,” assured Lokin.  “And should Ensign Temple want, I can share some old stories of her father’s exploits.  Keep her in mind of the good times.  At any rate, I appreciate the warning.”

 

“Of course,” Cipher inclined her head, then paused as she was about to leave, looking back.  “I sincerely congratulate you on your promotion, Doctor Lokin.  Well done.”

 

Lokin nodded his gratitude for the acknowledgment, and turned to his recovered data files as Vector followed Cipher into the main lounge in the center of the ship.

 

“He offered to try and cure us,” Vector admitted, and he saw a brief, mild flare of surprise in Paha’s mood.  After her, Lokin was probably the individual who was next most accepting of Vector’s dual nature.  “We refused, of course.”

 

“Of course,” Paha repeated.  She put her head to one side thoughtfully.  “Strange, that for all the supposed inferiority of the alien races, all this time there has been an entire division devoted to incorporating those inferior alien traits into humans, to improve them.  I’m not sure I can fathom it – but then, Lokin doesn’t seem to subscribe often to the common views.  He’s a deep one, our Eckard Lokin.”

 

“We don’t entirely understand him,” agreed Vector.  “But we don’t blame him for Protean’s work, or for our Joining – whatever his part really was.”

 

Mulling over his words, Paha answered, with some low level of bewildered curiosity, “This isn’t the first time you’ve been free with your forgiveness, and for something this personal… You two really are friends, not just mutual connoisseurs of Mirialan cuisine.”

 

“We don’t think he likes people,” Vector answered seriously, although not without some passing amusement over the notion of a friendship based on a joint interest in the spices Paha so disliked.  “We don’t know why he tolerates us, but… he does, and we’re grateful.”

 

Yes, he well would be; rejected so often by strangers, and rejected even by those who had once been friends, she could see how he would be grateful for so paltry a consideration as even just tolerance, particularly from such a misanthrope as Doctor Lokin.

 

“We don’t always have to trust our friends,” Vector concluded, somewhat surprising even himself with the observation.

 

\- - - -

 

"Temple, you are on no account to enter Intelligence Headquarters," Cipher ordered.  "If the place is crawling with Sith..."

 

Cipher didn't need to finish the consequences to Temple if her prediction were true.

 

“Understood, sir,” she answered easily.  She had no desire to hazard herself around such volatile beings, and Lokin, who openly shunned opportunities to visit his old place of employment, took a seat by the dejarik table in the lounge, waiting for her to join him.  An unlikely friendship seemed to have slowly begun between the two – perhaps Temple was seeking a surrogate for the father she had forced herself to lose.  If it helped her bear up under the weight of her guilt, then Cipher approved.  Temple’s personal career had advanced significantly, but she was yet a bit green, and Cipher didn’t wish to see her enthusiasm and talent prematurely blighted by a blast of ice-cold guilt.

 

An eerie hush reigned over the entry lobby of Imperial Intelligence Headquarters as Cipher and Vector entered.  Although neither abandoned nor silent, there was nonetheless a distinct reduction in visible staff, and those individuals scuttled about their jobs with tense, closed faces and hurried steps.  Voices were muffled, and conversations that were not completely stifled were carried out with the fewest and briefest of exchanges.

 

"Holy stars of hell," Cipher breathed in shock as they crossed the threshold.  "The Minders are gone."

 

Vector's eyes darted sidelong glances about the atrium and confirmed what Cipher had already asserted: Intelligence's crack psychology team was nowhere in sight and the entrance to headquarters was open and unmonitored.  Of the Minders who were, as Cipher suspected, Force-sensitive, most of them were probably already on Korriban, and of those, likely half or more were already dead, sacrificed to the bloodlust and vanity of ambitious Academy students bent on self-aggrandizement.  A senseless waste of valuable and talented personnel.  It had been a wise move to leave Temple behind.

 

“Now we know how others feel when Intelligence shows up unannounced,” observed Vector as another tight-lipped Fixer scurried past them without making eye contact.

 

But despite the atmosphere of wariness and fear, no Sith met them as they passed through the corridors.  There seemed to be one Sith only, to Cipher’s surprise, guarded by a small handful of Imperial soldiers.  Just one Sith, and yet that one was enough to terrify the population of the entire building.  That probably had something to do with the fact that this one Sith was a bone-masked, tusk-bearing Kaleesh and was currently Force-choking the life out of Watcher Three.

 

“Failure and disobedience are one and the same,” snarled the Sith, and Vector recalled what Cipher had said, before Protean, regarding the lack of punitive difference between incompetence and betrayal.

 

“My Lord… Razer,” gagged Watcher Three, his feet dangling half a meter off the ground.  “I – I tried –”

 

“In the Sith tongue, both translate as ‘treason,’” the Sith lectured, as indifferent to Watcher Three’s pleas as he was his bulging eyes and flailing limbs.  “That is the wisdom of the ancients!”

 

Cipher took three bold steps into the room, her eyes blazing.  “Put Watcher Three down,” she commanded in a tone that clearly expected compliance.  “Now.”

 

Vector, horrified at the sight of Watcher Three’s agonies, started with alarm as Cipher’s voice cut across the intervening quiet.  He had been too absorbed in the shock of the Sith’s wanton display of brutality to take note of the angry and valiant resolution that had seized her, and that she had promptly acted upon.  Had he noticed, he thought, he likely would have muzzled her before she’d had the chance to open her mouth with her brave and foolhardy challenge.  He sized up the guards, weighing his options and gauging his chances should Lord Razer elect to demonstrate his ability to Force-choke two high-ranking members of Intelligence at the same time.

 

“The Cipher agent,” Lord Razer exclaimed, yet without acceding to her demand.  “You defeated the traitor Jadus and the fools in the SIS.  My masters acknowledge your service.”

 

 _How magnanimous_ , Cipher thought.  In her dealings with the Sith, Cipher had noted they frequently displayed a certain behavioral commonality that she, or anyone at Intelligence, would have described as a critical character flaw: they were enamored with the sounds of their own voices.  With their reliance on strength and force, they disdained the subtleties that were an agent’s stock and trade, starting with that first critical lesson on how to use language effectively, and, even more importantly, knowing when to shut up.  The Sith tended to live free of such inhibitions.

 

Which meant, of course, that this Sith had the potential to be a font of information, given the proper guidance.  Not all Dark Council had agreed on the matter of her execution – _almost_ unanimous, the Minister of Intelligence had said.  If Lord Razer’s masters approved of Cipher’s removal of Jadus, then they likely had sided with the Minister when he advanced the brainwashing proposal in lieu of her execution.  Lord Razer’s masters, then, had the potential to be, if not allies, then at least assets, albeit dangerous ones, that she could use to her advantage.  And she hadn’t even needed to bait Razer into revealing it.

 

Razer let Watcher Three plummet; his enervated legs promptly failed to hold him upright, and he lay curled on the floor, gasping to draw ragged breaths through his bruised throat.  Cipher kept her composure, folding her arms and waiting to see what an expectant patience would purchase for her.  If Razer complied with the mold of the common Sith, he would be eager enough to fill the calm after the storm he had himself created.  It didn’t take long.

 

“But you serve Intelligence no longer,” Razer decreed, turning to face Cipher.  “By order of the Dark council, Operations Division is dissolved.  Personnel will be reassigned to wartime units or to deserving Sith Lords.”

 

It was a blow, no doubt about it, and Cipher hoped her struggle to conceal her reaction did not show on her face.  The thing she had pledged her life to, effaced in the single wave of a dozen hands.  And in exchange for what?  Military servitude, dismissal as another barely-competent alien grunt, useful only for feeding the cannons of the Republic so that the most useless of humans or pureblood Sith could live just one more day.  Or, if not that, drafted into equally humiliating bondage to a Sith Lord who was just as likely as the military to treat her as expendable, if it meant gaining even a tenuous upper hand in some petty rivalry that only served to hold the Empire back from a more glorious future.

 

And what of the Minister of Intelligence?  Dead?  Disgraced?  Stripped of rank and power, or merely held captive to it?  Was Keeper alive, or was she still imprisoned in the half-death induced by Hunter’s trapped recording?  Watcher Three quietly gathered himself, rising painfully from the floor, and staggered quietly aside, hoping to evade Razer’s notice.  He considered that it might be a cowardly act, to save himself while Cipher and Vector dauntlessly faced the Kaleesh warrior, but he knew he was useless here – and Cipher likely knew it, too.  Although he had adequate training in arms, as a Watcher, Three’s talents were data, not combat, oriented; injured, barely able to draw a full breath, his status as a liability was absolute.  And yet – his desire for information and his allegiance to whatever remained of Intelligence, even just this single agent, pulled at him to stay.

 

“With due respect,” Cipher said evenly, holding Razer’s attention as Three recovered behind him, “Operations is needed now more than ever.”

 

“Yes, it is,” Razer agreed easily, to Cipher’s surprise.  “The war does not go well, whatever the official word.  The Ministry of War must have resources, and Intelligence fails to do its part.  We hear rumors of corruption and treason.  Agents wasted chasing conspiracies, a brain-dead Keeper… time to butcher the beast for its meat.”

 

Cipher's heart sunk further at his words.  The trouble with operating in secret was that all the operations were, of course, secret.  How many swords against the Empire had been broken on the invisible shield of Imperial Intelligence?  How many storms weathered as nothing more than soft breezes thanks to the efforts of its agents?  How many threats eliminated, how many plots subverted, how many lives saved, through the mundane talents of mere aliens and humans unprotected by the power of the Force?  They could never publish their successes, and too often, the failures were obvious, as with Darth Jadus' Eradicators.  To the ignorant outsider, Intelligence would well look idle or ineffective.  The ignorant outsider would be dead wrong.

 

 “You mentioned that ‘deserving Sith Lords’ will take over,” Cipher prompted. If she were to be enslaved to a Sith Lord, she’d rather know it now.

 

“Intelligence has given its dregs to Darth Baras and Lord Sengus before,” replied Lord Razer coldly.  “They will make better use of your finest.”

 

Darth Baras.  As if the dissolution of Intelligence weren’t bad enough!  From what she had heard, he was paranoid to the point of derangement, lethally wasteful of his people and his resources, and nearly the walking definition of the arrogant over-reacher.  But without a direct cause to eliminate him with impunity, Cipher’s hands were tied; she could only hope that one day, he would meet his match in ambition and deviousness in one of his own hand-picked apprentices.

 

The main holoterminal nearby blinked and revealed the image of a helmeted Imperial soldier, and Cipher dug her teeth into her bottom lip to keep from openly showing her scorn.  Was every conscript and private in the whole Imperial army now going to have the holonumber for central Intelligence, the repository for the most highly-classified secrets of the Empire?  The level of indifference the Sith demonstrated towards even the most rudimentary of security measures was truly breathtaking.

 

“Ship secure, my lord,” the soldier reported.  Cipher felt an indistinct tingle of alarm.  Her ship?  “We found the alien outside a cantina.”

 

Her apprehension grew at this report, and was not calmed by the familiar sound of a woman’s raspy voice knitting together several swears in three languages, culminating in a brash demand:  “I was on a break!  What’s the deal?”

 

“Intelligence may overlook her past,” announced Lord Razer as the guards hauled Kaliyo before him, “but she is an anarchist and an enemy of the Empire.  She will be interrogated and judged.”

 

“I will kill you,” Kaliyo answered flatly.  “You get that?  I will _kill_ you.”

 

Vector tensed, less so from Kaliyo’s taunting threats than from his own memories of Cipher’s concerns about treason, about incompetence, about the behavior, or the outward appearances thereof, of herself and her crew.  Every single crewman on the _Phantom_ , barring, perhaps Toovee, had something that could be construed as treasonous.  Temple’s father.  Lokin’s strike on Project Protean.  Scorpio’s jaunt through the Intelligence mainframe, thanks to Cipher's facilitation.  His own connection to the Killik hive collective.  If Razer were so minded, he could bring them all up on charges – and if he opted for immediate executions, who would either stop or prosecute him?  

 

Cipher warned Kaliyo down with a glance that she was reasonably certain Kaliyo would either miss or ignore, and said, “Kaliyo’s service has been exemplary, and we’ve put far worse on the payroll.”

 

She turned back to Razer with every appearance of confidence, hoping that he would overlook the minor matter of the selling of Imperial secrets.  It might have been a bit of a stretch of the truth, but there was certainly no gainsaying Kaliyo’s martial skill, or the fact that Intelligence had accepted into its ranks some individuals whose depravity made Kaliyo look like little more than a naughty child.

 

“The decision was not mine,” Razer answered.  “Unless you intend to slaughter the entire Citadel, do not test me.”

 

Clearly, Razer had orders to ensure Cipher and the bulk of her team stayed both free – comparatively, at any rate – and alive.  That meant certain envelopes could be pushed.  The trick was figuring out how far. 

 

“I thought the point of this was to redistribute, not imprison, top talent,” Cipher said, preparing her counteroffer.  “You want my team at half-strength, fine.  But don’t take her.  Take someone else.”

 

Razer scoffed.  “You have no one I want.”

 

Vector was a little surprised that Cipher so readily accepted this response.  What he detected in her aura was something other than a mere submittal to a Sith’s decree, and he watched curiously as she stepped up to her friend, unhindered by Razer or his guards.

 

“They can’t hold you, you’re too good for that,” Cipher told her in a low tone.  She had no doubt that Kaliyo could get out of this, but to do that, Kaliyo needed to cool her heels and see her situation clearly.  “Wait for an opportunity.”

 

“These people are dead!” Kaliyo shouted over Cipher’s shoulder.  “And when I’m through with them, you and me are gonna finish this, I swear!”  The guards jerked at her shoulders, pulling her away, but despite her outward display of rage, Cipher thought Kaliyo might have understood.  With the stakes this high, Kaliyo might have to learn subtlety quickly.

 

“The rest of your team can remain intact,” Razer offered indifferently.  “As for you… by special request of the Minister of Intelligence, you are being transferred to my brigade on the Corellian front lines.  Together, we will drown the Republic in blood!”

 

Lord Razer turned on his heel and stalked away, his squad of guards bobbing along in his wake.  The silence he left behind was broken only by Watcher Three at last feeling comfortable enough to gulp air with a noisy rasp.

 

“I’m so sorry, sir,” he puffed, wincing in pain.

 

“It’s not your fault,” Cipher answered automatically.

 

“Maybe not,” he conceded, “but it sure feels that way.  This was the day Imperial Intelligence died.  And it happened on my watch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I used this chapter to sum up a lot of companion side stories, as I find these are best handled in between major planetary missions. I like that so many of them play into the issues of trust, treason, and control; they interlace very well with major themes I've been developing through the story.


	25. Disrupted

Cipher didn’t speak as they left the haunted halls of Intelligence headquarters behind them, feeling herself rather at a loss for words. 

 

“Are you okay?” Vector inquired finally as he followed her into the speeder waiting at the taxi stand.  So much of Paha’s identity, and so much of her pride, was wrapped up in her work, and that work had just been hacked out of her life in a matter of seconds.  What kind of hole would it leave behind?  Her aura rang with alarm and uncertainty.  And what, Vector wondered next, would that mean for their investigation of the Star Cabal?

 

Cipher didn’t answer for a moment.  “I think so, yes,” she replied.  “It took me by surprise – but now that I think it over, it’s not a complete disaster.  Razer gave us a pretty thorough briefing, all things considered.”

 

“We did note that he indicated the Minister of Intelligence, at least, was alive,” Vector said, mentally replaying the exchange as he slid into the seat beside her.  “Although we are less certain of Keeper.”

 

“I remain hopeful that she is,” said Cipher.  “His tally of Intelligence’s failures seemed to focus on the current state of things, present tense, not past issues, and ‘brain-dead Keeper’ was among those.  And it seems Minister is not only still alive, but still wields enough power to exert some influence over the futures of his people.”

 

“At least, his top-level agents,” Vector nodded, tossing her an acknowledging and complimentary look.  “Perhaps not many.  But we don’t know if he has genuine command power at his fingers, or if he is simply calling in old favors.  Arranging placements for his chosen personnel may have spent his political capital, either entirely or in part.”

 

“True,” Cipher noted.  “And that means that we can’t afford to rely on further assistance from him.  It may not be his to give.  As for Keeper…”

 

“If she lives,” Vector frowned, "she may yet still be... affected. In that state, with her song so muted, we’re afraid she’ll not have much to offer."

 

“No.  But here’s a consideration,” Cipher speculated cautiously.  “The Sith have taken over Intelligence on the charge of incompetence – Razer was prepared to kill Watcher Three over what he viewed as Three’s failures.  But those are equally Keeper’s failures, too – if you’re inclined to consider these as such, which personally, I am not, but Razer _would_ – so he would hold Keeper equally liable.”

 

“We see where you are going with this.”  Vector narrowed his eyes as he thought it over.  “With Keeper equally to blame, and moreover, with her plainly unable to fulfill her duties, Razer would consider her as dead weight.  Gristle and bone to discard after slaughtering the beast for its meat.  In a helpless state, she could offer no defense, although she is doubtless guarded.  But that would be little challenge to a Sith.”

 

“Right.  Which tells me that if we assume Keeper is alive, then she is somewhere out of knowledge, or at least out of reach, of Lord Razer – otherwise, his first act likely would have been to execute her,” Cipher reasoned.  “If the Minister, or Watcher Three, arranged to spirit her away, before Lord Razer’s arrival, and are keeping her location secret from the Sith, then there is every possibility that her condition may have improved, but kept just as hidden as her location.”

 

“It’s an encouraging thought,” Vector said with confidence.  

 

“Although it doesn’t help us much,” Cipher sighed fretfully.  “If Keeper is in hiding, she is in no position to assist us, and if she is, like Watcher Three, dodging charges of incompetence or betrayal, then her influence is probably fairly nonexistent, even if she were at liberty to bring it to bear.”

 

“Don’t discount the hopefulness of the thought,” Vector counseled, laying a warm hand over hers.  “In the dark of times like these, a spark may flare like a guiding star.”

 

She turned her head briefly to give him a worn smile of gratitude, but the depth of feeling in her eyes spoke more eloquently.

 

“Now, the Minister of Intelligence,” she said, watching the worn path through the Dromund Kaas jungle unfolding before them, flanked by oversized leaves that tossed their arms in the breeze of the speeder’s passing, “decided to use whatever influence he has retained to specially request our transfer to Corellia, according to Razer.”

 

“Frontline fighting,” Vector specified.  “We did not expect it.  Not to denigrate the bravery or skill of the soldiers of the Empire, but we felt you would be… rather wasted there.”

 

“I thought that, too,” Cipher said, “but I chalked it up to my own personal pride being affronted, at first.  Even Razer must recognize that to throw our little band in as cannon fodder must be tremendously foolish.  He specifically said that skilled operatives would be reserved for personal service to Sith Lords – so I suspect we’re not going to be frittered away as frontline troops.”

 

“The Sith on Corellia must have special tasks in mind for us,” Vector replied.

 

“Yes, without a doubt – but there might be more to it,” Cipher deduced.  “I can only come up with two possibilities: either Minister _really_ wants to keep us out of the hands of Darth Baras, or he has a particular use for us on Corellia.”

 

“Something perhaps related to the Star Cabal, you mean?”

 

“Exactly.”  Cipher throttled back the speeder and coasted it in to the transport station outside the spaceport.  Vector stepped out, and automatically extended his hand to Paha to take as she followed.  “But what that might be – there’s no way to know.  The best we can hope for is that we get some clue once we’re on the ground on Corellia.”

 

“We have no choice but to wait for that – if there really are ulterior motives for our presence on Corellia.”  He paused for a moment as Cipher cleared her credentials and departure codes with the spaceport personnel before turning along the corridor that led to the hangar bay where the _Phantom_ waited.

 

“Also, ‘take someone else?’” Vector repeated, his voice rising with curiosity and the question.

 

Unbecoming to their situation, and in spite of herself, a tactless smile tugged at the corner of Cipher’s mouth. 

 

“Scorpio,” she finally said, the smile expanding in one impish gleam before vanishing.  She looked up at him quickly.  “Surely, you didn’t think that _you…_ ”

 

“No!” he asserted immediately.  “Not for a moment.  But we wondered who you were considering for the sacrifice.”

 

“Not a sacrifice, exactly,” Cipher corrected, pausing in the corridor to await the lift to the hangar bays.  “Considering Scorpio’s cold deliberation against Kaliyo’s hotheadedness, Scorpio is certainly better equipped to hold up under imprisonment.  But even a prisoner can be useful; an asset hidden in plain sight behind enemy lines.  I’m the one with Scorpio’s command codes; I’m the one who can truly control her.  To plant an assassin droid, loyal only to me, in that nest of vipers?  The amount she could learn there could be considerable – something she would certainly appreciate – and every piece of that learning indelibly recorded in those sophisticated databanks of hers, and brought back for our use.”

 

Vector put his head to the side, his fingertips resting against his chin in a contemplative attitude.  “Well considered, if Razer had opted for it.  A shame that he didn’t.”

 

“But even in his refusal, we learned quite a lot.  First, he said ‘you have no one I want.’  That is curiously at odds with his declaration that Kaliyo was to be interrogated and judged for crimes against the Empire,” Cipher pointed out.

 

“It does lack sense, particularly when we consider how there is ample reason and evidence to put any one of us, or all of us, in Kaliyo’s place,” Vector agreed.  “Lord Razer must have, in that case, some concept of the crew to know that Kaliyo had a desirable skill set.  But a skill set for what?”

 

“That’s the question.  As for Razer’s source, I would guess a basic dossier from Watcher Three,” Cipher hypothesized.  They stepped out of the elevator lift to cross the hangar bay to where the _Phantom_ awaited their return.  “Informative, but limited.  Watcher Three would stall as long as possible regarding handing sensitive information over to the Sith.”

 

“It’s an interesting theory, but why,” Vector objected, “would Razer require a pretense for seizing Kaliyo?  He’s already seized you, your ship, and your team.  What purpose would an elaborate subterfuge serve?”

 

“That, I don’t know,” Cipher confessed.  “That’s where all my guesswork begins to fall apart.  But one other thing I can infer?  He has no idea what Scorpio is.”

 

“Or,” Vector suggested an alternative, “he knows that Scorpio is too well tied to you to serve his purposes.  Scorpio’s absolute obedience to you would be a hindrance to his plans.”

 

“Then Razer has a stunning lack of imagination if he couldn’t find a means of coercing me to order Scorpio to cooperate.  It wouldn’t take a whole lot of effort for a Sith strong in the Force to figure out my pressure points.” Cipher paused to give Vector a meaningful look before turning to the keypad beside the hatch door of the _Phantom_.

 

Vector raised his face as he cleared his throat slightly.  While he had come to an understanding of many of the challenges of being involved with an elite operative of Imperial Intelligence – issues of confidentiality and loyalty, of treason and betrayal of the most innocent and unsuspecting of targets – he had not, until this moment, fully pursued the line of thought of the many ways his feelings for her, and hers for him, could be used against them.  His consideration of the topic had begun and ended with her concerns regarding his link with the hive mind, and in playing down their affection for each other while in the halls of Imperial Intelligence.  What if there should be a time when he were forced to choose between the Empire and their relationship?  Or worse, when she would be forced to face that same choice?  It dawned on him that the Star Cabal’s unique ability to uncover the most hidden of secrets meant that they, in all likelihood, knew of their relationship, and the idea was so revolting that he actually felt his stomach roil in protest to it.  The Star Cabal could take anything beautiful and pure and sully it beyond all recognition.  Paha’s words indicated that she had already had this conversation with herself, and he wondered what conclusions she had come to.  Certainly, no conclusion that warred against her regard for him. 

 

“We hadn’t considered that angle,” he admitted, keeping the sudden eruption of his worry to himself.

 

Cipher and Vector’s entrance was instantly answered by the appearance of Lokin and Temple; Temple, at least, had started to grow curious over Kaliyo’s prolonged absence, and when the Rattataki woman failed to reply to Temple’s ping to her holo, the ensign’s curiosity had progressed to concern.

 

“Not only that, sir,” added Temple, “but there’s a message.  Anonymous, of course, sent scrambled, but it’s pretty obvious that it’s Hunter.”

 

“Conference room,” Cipher directed.  “And call Scorpio up here.  I’ve got news everyone needs to hear.  And let’s see what our old obnoxious friend has to say for himself.”

 

Cipher related the stunning and momentous events of the afternoon in a list of brief and bare facts before playing Hunter’s message, which was laden with the usual mockeries, half-truths, and breadcrumbs of information.

 

“You see the consequences of drawing their attention,” Hunter finished.  “I can’t protect you anymore.”

 

“Who’d have thought the Star cabal was so sentimental?” Lokin asked rhetorically as the holo went dark.  “Maybe if Intelligence had nurtured our agents more, we’d still be around.”

 

“Doubtful, Doctor,” Cipher replied.  “Once the Star Cabal takes it into their heads to dismantle something, it’s as good as gone.  The demolition of Intelligence was, I’m sure, just one more stepping stone towards their goal of annihilating the Empire and the Republic together.”

 

“We’ll talk to our contacts in the Diplomatic Service,” Vector offer.  “We’ll talk to the nest; we’ll talk to House Thul.  We’ll find support.  Discretely, of course.  Whoever openly assists us may find themselves in the Cabal’s crosshairs next.”

 

“Frankly, it’s hard to imagine Intelligence being gone,” Temple shook her head.  “So much for my future illustrious career.”

 

“Official sanction isn’t the only thing that makes an agent, Raina,” Cipher counseled.  “We may have lost Operations, but we know more about the Star Cabal than anyone.  And they’re running scared.”

 

“Believe me, I want them exterminated, too, Cipher,” Lokin cautioned, “but let’s not overstate our position.”

 

“Showing obvious bitterness,” Scorpio interrupted, “will be a tactical vulnerability.”

 

“It’s more of a tactical vulnerability that we’re down a person,” Temple answered.  “And it doesn’t make sense; Razer wanting to use Kaliyo for a specific purpose.”

 

“Unless…” offered Lokin, “it wasn’t Razer who asked for Kaliyo.  If it were somebody else, under the guise of having her arrested.”

 

Cipher straightened in her chair, raising her head as the ramifications of the idea spread before her.  “Somebody _else_ …” she surmised, strongly suspecting she already knew who.  “…like the Minister of Intelligence.”

 

“We recall now - Razer did say it was not his decision. And it _would_ be a way to pull an ally close without raising suspicion or spending political favors,” Vector agreed.

 

“And there is little love lost between Minister and Kaliyo,” confirmed Cipher.  “No one would ever expect Imperial Intelligence to reach out to a borderline disloyal anarchist.  Her history provides the perfect excuse and cover to detain her.” 

 

“All it would have required was the simplest hint,” said Lokin, “a casual word, a line left unexpunged in a report, to alert Razer to the situation, and incite him to make the arrest.  Shrewd.  Hazardous, but shrewd.”

 

“But what do we do about it?” asked Temple.  “This is all just speculation – we don’t know if this is really the case, or if she is just sitting in prison somewhere.”

 

“No, we can’t know – but I suspect that she isn’t.  Which means that, for now, Kaliyo is on her own.” Cipher shook her head.  “Mounting a rescue operation at this time could be more dangerous to her than leaving her where she is.”

 

“If I’ve learned one thing over the years, it’s this,” Lokin interjected.  “When all other paths are closed, you can play dead, or you can stir things up.  Either way, it’s a matter of watching for opportunity.”

 

“I would like to see a war,” Scorpio offered her opinion.

 

“We trust in your decision,” Vector added.

 

“Until the end, sir,” said Temple.

 

“In that case,” Cipher continued, rising to signal the end of the conference, “we’ll stop at Vaiken to outfit ourselves for our new stations in life, and then it’s off to Corellia and the front lines. I’m sorry, everyone, but… it appears we’ve been drafted.”

 

\- - - -

 

Cipher cut the engines on the _Phantom_ in the Vaiken Spacedock hangar bay, and was a little startled as she stood and turned to see Vector standing in the hatch door.  Her thoughts had been so preoccupied that she hadn’t sensed his presence nearby.  Sloppy, she told herself, very sloppy.  Her rueful self-scolding added another to the shifting hues of her mood, all conflicting and subdued under the restraints of her emotional self-control.

 

“Something in your memory,” he observed, “has the color and weight of a stone.  Kaliyo?  Or Intelligence?  Is there anything else we can do?”

 

“No,” Cipher sighed a little.  “It’s both, and neither.  I was just thinking of the last thing Watcher Three said.  I’ve heard those words before.”

 

He cast his mind back.  “’If you live to see Imperial Intelligence die,” Vector quoted with a nod.  “Hunter claimed that would be him giving you a taste of true freedom.”

 

“Intelligence is dead,” Cipher said, and the colors of loss curled around her, painting images of a bereft feeling.  Considering how they had used her, the elegy in the tones of her voice was a little surprising, but she thought that Intelligence had given her much more than they had ever taken.  A vocation.  A place to belong.  Appreciation for her skill regardless of her appearance.  A position in society.  Respectability.  And of course, Vector.  “If this is Hunter’s idea of giving me freedom, then why do I feel so trapped?”

 

“If the Star Cabal eliminates the Empire, then there will be no more Imperial military,” Vector said.  “Perhaps that is what he means for you to look forward to.”

 

“It’s a ghastly prospect,” Cipher replied quietly.  “No Empire, and no Republic, I mean.  Given the ruthlessness the Star Cabal employs, I don’t understand how they can be so naïve as to think that destroying the Empire and the Republic will bring any sort of stability to the galaxy.  Even if the command centers for each are removed, there will still be thousands of Jedi and Sith, each powerful in their own right.  There will be hundreds of thousands of warlords, noblemen, gangsters, politicos, and military officers with ideas of grabbing power for themselves in the vacuum left behind when the forces that held them in check are removed.   Millions of soldiers turned loose, and then billions of civilians, will seek out service under whoever can offer them the best prospects of life.  Every planet in the galaxy will erupt into thousands of civil wars, fought on a hundred thousand fronts.  The Star Cabal will introduce anarchy on a scale that vastly exceeds anything Kaliyo’s Brentaal friends could even imagine.”

 

Vector was quiet a moment, horrified at her vision of the future under the Star Cabal’s victory.  “If the Republic and the Empire had succeeded in maintaining peace,” inquired Vector, “do you think the Star Cabal would have its chance now?”

 

“The Cabal has been playing out their hand in secret for years; I think the behavior of the factions is probably secondary,” Cipher answered.  Her lip curled in frustration and disdain.  “I wouldn’t be surprised at all if they were behind the breaking of the Treaty of Coruscant.  But there will never be a lasting peace between the Empire and the Republic, and not because of the Star Cabal.”

 

Vector stood aside for her to step into the hangar bay elevator first, and gestured for her to explain.

 

“Oh, not because of patriotism or vengeance or even the endless machinations of the Sith.  Because of the economy,” Cipher said.  “Right now, vast amounts of Imperial resources are devoted to the war.  Without a war, there is no need to maintain an army.  With no war, all the corporations who have built their fortunes in making war droids and ships will shut down, releasing their workforce alongside all the unneeded soldiers.  The livelihood of the entire planet of Balmorra will vanish overnight, and that will be just the beginning.  Billions of Imperial citizens will be out of work.  No work, no money, then homelessness, starvation, and disease, and death.   As high as are the costs of war, the costs of peace are higher.”

 

“And we imagine it would be much the same in the Republic,” Vector surmised.  “They would have all the same disasters.”

 

“Perhaps worse,” Cipher pointed out.  “The Republic doesn’t always put the best people in positions most suited for their talents, and this, with their incessant bureaucratic committees, means it takes forever to begin to address an oncoming disaster even when they see it coming parsecs away.  The Republic system fosters incompetence.  The Imperial system allows for the skilled to prove their proficiency and extend their influence via their opinions as authorities.  It is _orderly._   Under the Republic's democratic disarray, their tenets of equality guarantee that one man's idiocy is given as much consideration as another man's expertise.  It's sloppy, and even more prone to collapse than the Imperial way.”

 

“An astonishing thought,” Vector considered sorrowfully.  “That the picture of peace between the Empire and the Republic is the same as the picture of the Star Cabal’s victory.  The clashing songs of the Empire and the Republic rely upon each other to continue.  A dance of death that encompasses the galaxy.  We see why there can never be peace.  Each side has too much to lose.”

 

A note of genuine distress crept into his voice as, in his unenthusiastic acceptance of the inevitable conclusion that Paha had reasoned out, he realized it also meant admitting to the limitations and failures of the Diplomatic Service.  Perhaps, considering the militaristic bent of the Empire, he had expected too much of the diplomatic approach, which would be forever secondary to the use of more fatal means for expansion or conflict resolution, and he said as much. 

 

“It crossed our mind to wonder how long it will be before the Star Cabal dismantles the Diplomatic Service.  Or is the Service so meager in its influence that they think it beneath their notice?  When diplomacy is effaced by the military machine, what difference do our efforts make?  We don’t want to believe it has all been for nothing,” he said, a shadow crossing his face and his tone together.  “That the diplomatic approach is a pointless dance to a fool’s hornpipe.  But sometimes… we wonder.”

 

“No,” Paha hastened to assure him.  Her conviction rang in her aura like the pure tolling of a bell.  “No, it isn’t wasted or futile, at all.  Your work is not unimportant, and your success between the Killiks and the Empire is not insignificant.  The Empire may rely on conquering planets to survive, but to thrive it requires allies, and that happens only because of people like you.”

 

They had long since drawn aside out of the common path of traffic into a corner near a short, broad stairwell, and Paha relied on the simple ignorance of people fixed on their own concerns to seclude herself and Vector from general notice.  Although if people observed them now, standing close together away from the shuffling bustle of the space dock population, what would it signify?  Intelligence was gone, and Hunter was selectively blowing her cover at will.  There was little point to secrecy now, although the habits of discretion weren’t easily changed.

 

“People,” Paha continued, her voice mellowing into some blend of softness and earnestness, “who care to give the Empire a reputation for something other than callous subjugation.  Who want to prove that there is another way than the military machine.”  She stretched out her hand to touch his cheek; the caress of her palm light and warm against his face was a gesture that offered him more comfort than he had expected from so simple an action.  The trust she had in him, this faith of the deepest and most absolute kind, was so natural that he sometimes feared taking it for granted; when it occurred to him to stop and notice it, to take the luxury of tasting its sympathy and its solace, it still did not fail to astonish him.

 

He caught her waist at the same time he turned his head against her hand, bestowing a gentle kiss of gratitude into her fingers as they traced his jawline.  The small smile she gave him in return sang to him a tender anthem of generous affection and unquestionable love, and his heart leapt as much from her look as it did her touch.  Vector hoped the journey to Corellia would not be a brief one.

 

“Vector?” A voice, hushed with shock and some short distance off to his right, made them both start, and his half-closed eyes flew open as Paha’s hand yanked itself abruptly back to her side.  The custom of clandestine behavior was indeed a difficult habit to break, and she turned towards the intruder, defiantly embarrassed at having been twice caught – the first, unaware of her surroundings, and the second, unguarded in her display of feelings.  Her eyes met a dimly familiar face, rounded and topped with a crown of dark hair, with ingenuous dark eyes that were wide with disbelief.  She wore an Imperial military uniform.

 

Vector found his voice first.  “Anora.”

 

Inexplicably – to him – he found himself subject to some amount of discomfiture at the situation, although it was entirely possible a good measure of that was what his senses were picking up from Paha’s aura.  Anora had surprised them in a moment of candid and obvious affection, in an attitude of undisguised emotional intimacy that left little question regarding the status of their intimacy of a more physical kind.  Their outward demonstrations of their feelings for each other had been publicly very reserved, and were even now still limited before their other teammates, and Vector could see the dismay with which Paha met their being openly discovered by his former flame.  Awkward did not even begin to cover it.

 

He tapped into some of the more Killik aspects of his nature to recover his self-possession, and said evenly, “Agent, this is Anora, an old friend from many years ago.  From before we went to Alderaan.”

 

“I – I didn’t know you weren’t on Alderaan any longer,” Anora said faintly.  She struggled to resist the urge to squirm under the weight of the impassive gaze of the unnerving black eyes – eyes, she noted, which appeared not to bother the blue woman in the slightest.

 

“No.  We are working with Intelligence now.  Anora, this is –” Vector paused, at a loss as he was struck by the realization that he had no idea how to complete the introduction.  Not as Paha Fennec; her real name was as yet unknown to even the remainder of the crew, and he had not realized until this moment how much he treasured being one of the few to know it.  It was equally out of the question to introduce her by the term he used only in his mind, as his beloved, and it seemed somehow faintly cruel to throw their relationship in Anora’s face. 

 

It wasn’t up to him, either, to inform any individuals unconnected to their missions as to her status as a cipher agent, let alone her designation as Cipher Nine – that was a decision for her to make, if her classification were even valid any longer.  With the destruction of Imperial Intelligence, the agents were now as nameless as they were unsupported, and it would be only a matter of time before every agent’s cover and identity collapsed.  Retaliations against every unveiled agent of the Empire would begin in earnest, swift and lethal, with whole families, even to innocent children, caught in the vengeance.  The Star Cabal’s destructive act had been thorough.  He could thank the stars for her lack of familial attachments later; right now, he was still faced with the dilemma of completing the introduction.

 

“This is the agent we have been working with,” he finished.

 

True to her training, Paha had quickly recovered from her surprise, and she gave a small incline of her head.  “Imperial Agent Legate,” she said, falling back on Kothe’s old codename for her as she instinctively followed an instantaneous impulse to keep concealed what shreds of her official identity yet remained.  “Nice to meet you.”

 

Sometimes diplomacy required a bald-faced lie.  Most people referred to it as “tact.”  Well, she needn’t be jealous – Vector had already made it perfectly clear that Anora was part of his past, and intended for her to stay there.  But then, that was when she was just a short message replaying from a hand-held holo.  Her being here, life-size and present, would be as sure a call to Vector’s memories of human life as Aristocra Saganu had been a reminder of Paha’s ties to Csilla.  She had resisted that lure.  And she more than trusted that Vector would not be enticed by this one.

 

“I’m sure you two would like a few minutes to catch up,” Cipher continued before the growing awkward silence had the chance to become ridiculous.  She slapped a suitably pleasant smile across her features and gave Vector a nod.  “Take your time, and I’ll meet you back at the ship.  I can finish all the errands.”  She was particular in how she phrased the last part, setting up an out for him, should he choose to use it, either immediately or as needed.  He gave her a nod in response, and was unable to pull his eyes away from her retreating form until it disappeared around the corner, watching her closely held emotional state for clues to her meaning and intent.  She didn’t look back.

 

\- - - -

 

Vector had been waiting for some time in the hangar, unnecessarily on hand if Toovee needed assistance in restocking the _Phantom_ ’s cargo hold, when Cipher arrived, a number of packages under her arm.  He reached out to take some from her, and spied her quizzical eyebrow, but said nothing until she nudged him.

 

“Well?”

 

“More or less,” he answered.  “And considerably uncomfortable.  About as one would expect.  We found it difficult to talk to Anora.  Not because of our history, but because we have nothing in common anymore.”

 

“Never easy, is it?  Talking with ghosts,” Paha said.

 

“No, it isn’t.  She spoke again about reverting us to our old life, and seemed surprised when we refused.  Not surprised, really,” his brow furrowed as he sought the right word to correct himself.  “Disapproving, we think.  We can’t blame her for her reaction.”

 

The corners of Paha’s mouth curled up slightly.  “You wouldn’t,” she replied.  “Forever understanding.  Or at least, even if you don’t understand, you still don’t condemn.”

 

“Seeing Anora served a purpose, however,” Vector said, his thoughtful tone unexpectedly brightening slightly.  “We understood the surface reasons for our parting, long ago.  But there were things between our natures that were out of tune, and we did not understand this until seeing her as we are now.”

 

“With the sight of the Killiks, you mean?”

 

“Her aura is… too sweet,” he described.  “Too compliant.  Its colors are all timidity and passiveness.  We recall she was always overly eager to please.  Anxious to do so, even, and too distressed if she thought she could not.”  He cast a sidelong glance at Paha.  “We think you would find her annoying.”

 

“I really thought I was hiding that pretty well," she grimaced wryly.

 

“Oh, you were,” Vector assured.  “But we know you.  And we know ourselves better now.  We think there are many men, selfish men, who would like such a partner, but we have learned we are not one of them.  We prefer someone with a bit more…zest.”

 

The twist of Paha's lips curled into a more genuine smile, brightened with sauciness.  “Good thing I have zest to spare."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intend to have a few comments here, but I'm too tired to write them up tonight - I'll update this tomorrow when I have more energy!


	26. Something Like a Fire and Something Like the Stars

Cipher Nine did her level best to dawdle on Vaiken for as long as she thought she could prudently stall their arrival on Corellia, but she knew there was no escaping the summons.  Orders were orders, and the military was, as a rule, reluctant to overlook a protracted delay of their newly recruited lieutenant.

 

“I would have thought I would have at least warranted a captain’s rank,” Cipher griped in a tone that straddled both the condition of being nettled and being resigned.  “It’s not like I lack experience.”

 

“We could see it as a hidden blessing,” Vector countered lightly.  “As a lieutenant, there are that many more levels above you to insulate you from the responsibility of decisions.”

 

Cipher gave a short huff of laughter, its mirthless sarcasm as evident in her voice as her aura.  “It works the other direction, too,” she replied.  “Many an officer will throw an underling to the savrips if it means saving their own neck.”

 

“We don’t imagine a savrip being much of a challenge for you,” Vector said, “but we get your point.”

 

“Since Lord Razer claimed our merry little band specifically, I can only hope he has a particular use for us.  Something that won’t waste our time or abilities.  That it’s not a matter of just being able to brag to the other Sith that he has –”  One of Cipher’s last acts before departing Vaiken was, as was her habit, the synchronization of the ship’s computer with the spacedock communications servers, and as they spoke, she had been idly flipping through the accumulation of mail that had downloaded – most of it of no account.  But one single missive leapt before her eyes and her attention, and she broke off sharply, a prickle of stunned surprise jarring her mood, too obvious to be ignored.

 

“What is it?” Vector inquired after giving her a moment.  The surprise had given way to fragments of compassion and sympathetic sorrow, jumbled with indefinite ideas of guilt, and she wordlessly handed him the datapad, where, plainly displayed in the sender’s line, was the name Phi-Ton.  Vector was no less surprised than Paha, and he made no answer as he read the brief missive.

 

_My wife.  I do not know if you hear._

_I send out of tradition.  I speak as a friend._

_The teahouse is different.  The holidays come, and we study._

_Your people walk Voss-Ka.  We offer tea.  Some drink.  I remember you.  Others marry; I remember you._

_Your place in the teahouse always remains.  Others’ hearts fill the emptiness._

_Forget me.  Remember Voss._

 

Vector passed the datapad back to Paha, feeling strangely like a voyeur.  He understood that this was a matter of Paha’s openness, no different from her admissions regarding Aristocra Saganu when they had left Hoth, and now that he had that comprehension, he was aware of a sense of honor at her willingness to share such details with him, regardless of the pang those details gave her.  Nonetheless, reading firsthand another man’s expressions of loss, when that man’s loss was his own gain, gave Vector an uncomfortable sense of intrusion.  Phi-Ton was entitled to his privacy for his grief.

 

“I can’t honestly say that I will _forget_ Phi-Ton,” Paha admitted quietly, laying the datapad back on the command console.  “It’s a rather one-sided demand; isn’t it?  And kind of arrogant.”

 

Putting his hand to his chin as he often did while thinking, Vector decided he could see her point.  In the space of but three lines, Phi-Ton had hinted at an enduring devotion and loneliness while simultaneously offering a magnanimous gesture of freedom to Paha.  At face value, it appeared that Phi-Ton was openly willing to martyr himself on the altar of marital attachment, espousing the sorrow of a loveless existence for the remainder of his life, and such a self-immolating purpose – the ultimatum of _give me love, or give me death_ – displayed a degree of vanity that would very well make Paha, as the focus and recipient of it, uncomfortable.  When Vector considered how little the enthusiastic Phi-Ton actually knew of Paha, he found himself wondering how much of Phi-Ton’s current state was the result of the mystical unlocks granted by the Rite of Ardor – and, not for the first time, wondering if he should have stepped in and stopped the ceremony before it had begun.  Not that such a speculation would serve any purpose now.

 

“It could be considered a little,” he paused briefly, calling up a slightly more politic adjective, “unfair.  Although we still believe that he will move on – it has been only a short time, after all.  And he understands the value of companionship – the other hearts he mentioned about him.”

 

Vector reached out and brushed a comforting hand over Paha’s arm.  One of the traits he had picked up from the Killiks was the act of communication through touch.  He had held the habit under close restraint as he moved through the humanoid world, but with Paha, he felt safe enough to indulge in it.  The humanoid races, so immersed in technology, had severed themselves from much of the Song of Nature, and in the process had lost half of the instinctive and prehistoric methods of communication; scent and touch were effectively entirely gone, and what remained were only the auditory cues, and, to lesser extent, the visual ones.  The Killiks retained these, and his Joining had re-opened the lexicon for him, although the general humanoid wariness against intrusive physical contact forced him to maintain almost complete reticence outside of the nest.  With Paha, there was no need for reserve, and his gesture, triggering in her some hint of those instincts lost long ago, was as much a consolation as his words.

 

“Phi-Ton will recover.  We did," he said simply.  "We recall there was a time when we could not imagine being without Anora, and then we found ourselves as exactly that, without requiring our imagination.  And first we learned there was life after Anora, and then we discovered that there was love, too.”

 

The way he smiled now, not only with his lips but with his entire being as he looked upon her, made Paha’s heart shiver.  “A better love than ever we had expected when we were with Anora, or thought to expect when we no longer were.  Now, we can barely manage a conversation with Anora, let alone imagine being with her again.  Phi-Ton will not believe it now, but, despite any mystical pressures, he will mend.  He won’t be the same, but as you once taught us: people change.”

 

“Time heals all wounds?”

 

“Even a cliché contains a modicum of truth.”

 

“It’s rather new to me,” Paha confessed, “I’ve never been in love before.”

 

Vector raised his head a little.  “We’re not sure why that surprises us,” he said.  “But it does.”  It was almost a falsehood: at least some part of his reaction was that, of all the men in the galaxy that she had met, or even liked in passing, it was he himself, alienated and outcast, that would be the one to reach her.  The one to slip past her defenses, bypassing the walls around her heart and the barriers around her soul.

 

“Well.”  Paha took a breath.  “I suppose this means that I am full and truly divorced.”

 

“A good point, and one which we had not yet considered,” Vector replied.  He raised an eyebrow.  “We’re not sorry for it.”

 

With a small chuckle, she answered, “Neither am I.  Although I don’t know as that I ever felt or behaved like a proper married woman at any point during it.”

 

“We’re not sure if it’s in good taste, but we think this may be cause for a celebration,” he said, smiling back.  The tiny, unidentified flicker in Paha’s aura winked abstrusely at him, but he had seen it enough times by now to spy it almost easily this time, and it settled him on the timing of a course of action he had already determined to take.  “When it is convenient for you, come to us in the usual place.  We have something for you.”

 

He cut off any chance she had for any pointed questions with a quick kiss, and, before she could worm any hints out of him with her penetrating eye, he fled the bridge.

 

\- - - -

 

Intrigued and curious over Vector's cryptic parting message, Paha left the bridge in Temple's capable hands and slipped away to the cargo hold at the earliest convenient opportunity.  Her smile as she entered flashed upon him brightly, sparking vivid shimmers of enchantment through the halo of her demeanor.

 

"We knew you wouldn't be long," Vector greeted her.

 

"Am I that predictable?" she replied with a pert laugh.

 

"Hardly.  But we are aware we have an advantage where we are concerned."  He fixed her with a level eye.  "So… we know you have been hiding something from us."

 

Her smile fading, Paha blinked, a touch bewildered, incognizant of a deliberate omission or oversight.  "Work-related?" she assumed with a slight shake of her head.  "Vector, if I were to go through every Imperial secret in my brain it would take the better part of a week.  Surely –”

 

"It's not work-related," Vector interrupted quietly, and his sudden solemnity caught Paha in a moment of apprehension.  He saw her unease, and was swift to reassure her.  "It's something you want."

 

"It is?" Paha asked, mystified and feeling rather stupid over it.  She sifted through her brain, trying to recall any passing desire she might have expressed in an idle transient fancy, and came up empty, and she shook her head a second time, utterly stymied.  It was not often that she found herself so at a loss, but if it were Vector with the upper hand, she found she didn’t much mind.  Clearly, whatever it was, he wanted it to be a surprise.

 

“We’ve been speaking to friends in the Diplomatic Service,” Vector began, “putting doctor Lokin’s lessons in persuasion to good use.  It took some brokering to find a gift for you –”  He broke off as he took her hand and placed a small object, secreted within his other palm, into it, her fingers closing around it reflexively.

 

"Oh!  It's..."  Paha paused, and, still with some confusion, she uncurled her fingers and looked at it closely.  In her palm rested a durable and solid stone in a perfect sphere, its surface variegated in shades of purple stretching from lavender to nearly black, but yet translucent enough to reveal wispy fibers of gold deep within that seemed to swirl and dance as they caught the light. 

 

"...a rock," she concluded.  She held it up to stare at it, entranced, her eyes following the eddies of color that glowed within its dark depths, warmed from its contact with Vector's skin. With the flicker of a bemused smile, she shifted her eyes from the mesmerizing sight to his face and inquired quizzically, "I wanted a rock?  …It _is_ an incredibly beautiful rock," Paha added, her smile broadening warmly.

 

"An ulikuo gemstone once owned by the Tapani noble houses," Vector explained, his voice tinted with some pride.

 

“It's stunning.  I've never seen its like," Paha assessed frankly, lowering it from before her face and cradling it against her chest, just over her heart, without being aware she did so.  A light kindled in her eyes as she arched a playful brow.  "Are you just feeling generous, or is there an occasion?”

 

“Traditionally, the Tapani nobles present the stone as part of a marriage proposal," Vector replied.  He had succeeded in keeping his nerves under control until, abruptly, they erupted upon him at this point, and he swallowed a knot that sprang into his throat without warning, softening his voice as he added, "Which is what this is.”

 

If the gemstone itself had stunned her, that was a paltry description of what swept over Paha now, to the extent that she literally staggered where she stood, her eyes stretched with astonishment.

 

"We are quite sure we have read you correctly," Vector said softly, reaching out with both hands to take hold of hers, pulling the one holding the gemstone gently from its resting spot against her breast.  She was still too startled to be anything other than nonresistant, pliant under his touch, and when she looked down, she found their hands entwined together around the stone.  “And we have read ourselves with equal care.  We know you can never Join us.  You can never share our thoughts.  But if you can’t live in our world, we can live in yours, forever.  We love you.  Will you marry us?”

 

In the span of but a few breathless heartbeats, Paha took a rapid stock of herself.  Vector had said he had observed, from her own behavior or reactions, that this was something she wanted, and despite all she knew of him, and all their time together, some part of her was yet astonished that he had been able to read something in her that she herself had not been consciously aware of. 

 

The Rite of Ardor on Voss had been a sham, and going through the motions had felt wrong on more levels than she could have articulated at the time.  She recalled she had stopped in protest to the idea in the middle of the street – “I don’t want to get married!” had been her exclamation – but in this moment, where nothing stood between herself and the truth of her heart, she knew that even at the time there had been an addendum to the exclamation: “I don’t want to get married – _to Phi-Ton_.”  Had Vector seen it even then?  In the demands of responsibility, and the strain of their work, it had not occurred to her to examine herself, but now that she was demanded to do so, she found she wanted, more than anything, to have this man at her side, and to be at his, forever.  It was a desire indelibly printed on her heart, she had just never stopped to read the words.  Vector had.  So often, she had told him once, she was denied the things she wanted most – and now he offered her the granting of a want she did not even know she wished for, and it touched her heart to the quick, as acutely as if she had been stabbed there.

 

Paha’s vision blurred as she stared at their joined hands, and it was not until she raised her head to return Vector’s earnest look that she realized the cause was the tears standing in her eyes.  Her aura burst forth with the fervor of an unshakable conviction, highlighted by the stronger radiance of an emotion of the most indescribable kind, blending wonderment and passion and devotion in an enduring blaze.  Her voice was softened, roughened, almost weakened by the overwhelming force of her feelings, once she had released her reins to allow them to absorb her.

 

“Vector,” she murmured, scarcely more than a whisper.  She struggled, her throat tight; he had been clear in his asking, and he deserved the honor of a clear response.  Pursing her lips for an instant to quell their trembling, she repeated, more distinctly, “Vector, I love you, and I will gladly share my life with you.”

 

His face was already breaking into an expression of uncontrollable joy, and she felt herself poised to follow, but she exerted the effort to maintain her control for just a few seconds longer, just enough time to plainly state, “I will marry you,” before, flushing violet with elation, she found her lips stilled by Vector’s rapturous kiss.

 

“Then…we have an agreement,” he said, when he could speak again, and although the surface value of the words suggested embassies and treaties, his tone left any and all impersonal diplomatic niceties by the wayside.  “We don’t have a ceremony planned, and for the sake of your cover, perhaps it can’t be officially sanctioned.”  There was a ripple in her mood that did not escape his notice.  “What is it?”

 

“I was only thinking,” Paha confessed, knowing he had seen the irony pass through her, “how unfair it is that the marriage I care nothing about was the one that was openly performed, and the one to the man I desire above all things must be hidden, without even legal standing.”

 

“Hidden to the galaxy, perhaps, but not to us.  Which is all we need.”  The relief that followed the breaking of tension and the thrill of her open admission – _the man I desire above all things_ – left him with a weakness in his knees, and he guessed, rather than saw, that Paha’s state wasn’t much better.  Drawing her gently with him, he took his accustomed seat on the storage crates, and they perched side-by-side, one hand of each yet still jointly clinging to the gem that formed the keystone of their union.

 

“We know this was sudden,” Vector continued, wrapping his free arm around Paha’s waist.  “Abrupt, even.  But we have had time to consider our reasons.  Our feelings, of course, require no explanation.  The command, however, to report to Corellia… This is the battleground for some of the fiercest fighting of the war, and you have been stripped of the autonomy Imperial Intelligence had granted you.  We do not obsess over empty fears, but still, when we considered that anything might happen in such a place… we wanted to ask this before Corellia’s front has had its opportunities on us both.

 

“And then, as you pointed out, you are free now – although this was not a weighty part of our considerations, as it wasn’t of your choosing, but only of necessity.  We have wondered,” he confessed quietly, “if, rather than being too soon, we were instead too late.  Had we moved with more alacrity, perhaps you could have offered that as a reason to avoid wedding another.”

 

“But then, we might not have succeeded on Voss,” Paha reminded him. She tightened her hand on his.  “I would say your timing is just fine.”

 

She paused, struck by an idea prompted by her own words.  “Instead of why now, Vector, why _not_ now?”

 

“We’re sorry?”

 

“To marry,” she clarified.  “With no official sanction or ceremony, does it matter when or where we decide to consider ourselves as married?  It’s not like I’m in the habit of long engagements; why change that?  And Corellia… you raise a good point.”

 

It was Vector’s turn to be startled by the abruptness, even as he appreciated the pragmatic logic.  “We think,” he said slowly, “you may be correct.  There is little point or gain to waiting.  Would you like us to summon Doctor Lokin to be our officiant?”

 

“Don’t you dare,” Paha threatened good-naturedly.  “But that is no reason to skip the ceremony altogether.” 

 

She rose to her feet, her heart thundering within the hollow of her chest, and he followed, entwining both his hands with hers once again around the ulikuo gem, and, facing each other in such an attitude, their souls stripped bare of concealment or affectation, they were simultaneously struck with a sense of sobering gravity that silenced them for a few moments.  Paha broke it first.

 

“I know on occasions like this it’s customary to make some sort of vow,” Paha murmured, solemn and hesitant, “but now that I come to it, I find myself thinking more about all the things I can’t promise.” 

 

She bowed her head over their united hands.  “I can’t promise to tell you everything, or that I won’t have to keep things from you.  I can’t promise that I’ll always be truthful or that my work won’t force me to lie… even to you.  Reluctantly,” she admitted, with a flicker of a rueful grin.  “Vector, I can’t even promise to be the same person from one day to the next!  Are – are you sure you’re okay with this?”

 

“We are.  In our travels, we have discovered that everyone holds three or four people within themselves.  We two are just more honest about it than most.”

 

Paha took a breath, hoping it would steady her nerves, but they seemed bent on jittery defiance as she spoke again.  “Then I pledge to you, Vector Hyllus, my heart, as one of the few things that is mine, and truly my own to give.  I offer it to you freely, with no reservations.  And should I be fortunate enough to be given yours, I promise to treasure it, and to be its guardian, as I promise to be your support, your champion, your partner, and – and your beloved.”

 

Her voice had faltered but once, at the end, as emotion swept her up, and Vector could see her shaking, as he could feel it through their knotted fingers, and he realized he, too, was trembling as he opened his mouth to speak.

 

“To you,” he said a trifle hoarsely, “Paha Fennec, we entrust our heart and our faith, and no worthier hands are there in this galaxy to receive them; you, who have given us what we thought was beyond our reach.  To be worthy of these precious things you give us is our vow and our hope.  If you are our champion, then we will be your defender and your sentinel.  If you are our support, then we will be your foundation and your strength.  If you are our partner, then we will be your helpmate, your friend, your companion, and your husband.  Your beloved.” 

 

As she lifted her face to his, he looked into her eyes, as overflowing with feeling as were his, and the kiss that sealed their oaths tasted of stardust and salty tears.

 

“It is real,” Vector murmured, as yet astonished at how swiftly, how easily, how perfectly, their solo melodies blended into a duet that almost pained him with its beauty.  “We are one.”

 

Paha glanced up at him almost bashfully.  “Can I make a request?” she asked, and as he nodded, she continued, “Can you say something in that way of yours?  Something only a Joiner would?”

 

The petition, along with his rattled nerves, prompted a wobbly smile to flicker over his lips, and he freed an unsteady hand from their joint grasp to caress the narrow curtain of azure hair back from her flushing cheek as he gathered his words.  “There are patterns in your electric aura that are yours alone,” he said softly.  “They taste like frost and spices.  We will remember them always.”

 

He was rewarded by the sight of her aura glowing with pleasure and contentment and she leaned against him to kiss him again, and it was some few minutes later that he raised his head and glanced around the cargo hold, taking it in with an apologetic look.

 

“We said we hadn’t made plans for a ceremony,” Vector said with a crooked half-smile, “but this still wasn’t exactly the setting we imagined.”

 

“And what was it you did imagine?” Paha inquired playfully.

 

“We had vague notions of a secluded spot, on some romantic lonely planet –”  Their mutual looks indicated they recalled her long-ago teasing wish of a planet all their own.  “– the warmth of a fire beneath a sky ablaze with stars, and the heavens singing.  But there is no reason a cargo hold cannot be as romantic, when we think of you being here.”

 

“I’m not sure I can do much for a planet,” she replied, thinking quickly, “but let me see what I can come up with.  Give me an hour, then come by my room.  Or should that be _our_ room now?”

 

With that roguish suggestion, she slipped out of his embrace, and his eyes hunted after her as she disappeared around the bulkhead door, leaving only her warmth and fragrance behind.  An hour would never be so long, or wished to be so short, as the one that stretched before him now.

 

\- - - -

 

The door panel to her quarters chirped at the appointed time, and Paha was quick to open it to his admittance.  He had showered, and a lock of his dark hair dangled damply against his brow, escaping the habit of its usual brushed-back position.  Vector stood before her in his black pants and white shirt, having, practically, seen no point in fully dressing in his usual jacket again, and the crisp sleeves were rolled back, displaying the long muscles of his bare arms.  As the door hissed shut behind him, he drew his bare feet out of his boots, and paused to look around him.

 

The lights were dimmed to near night levels, but the room was not enshrouded in darkness: the readout of the desk console had been palette-shifted to a muted display of orange and yellow hues, and set to gradually scroll through an array of sensor readouts and ship displays such that they created a warm glow of light that slackly danced in languid turns, creating, with some imagination, the illusion of a fire caught in some hypnotic trance and slowed by the imposition of a powerful force.  Beside it, Paha had wired her holocommunicator to the console, using the holographic device to project a map display from the astrogation computer onto the ceiling overhead.  In a place of honor at the center of the shelf above the bed, she had placed the ulikuo gem, and a decanter and two stemmed glasses, ready and waiting with a burgundy liquid within, stood at hand.

 

“It’s not a planet of our own, nor is it very remote,” she said, “but we can at least pretend it is secluded, and there’s something like a fire, and something like the stars.”

 

“It’s perfect,” he answered, taking in the sight and including her within it.  She was wrapped in a simple robe of a sleek and glossy dove-colored material that hung in soft straight lines from her shoulders to her toes, belted at the waist with a plain sash tie, and its clinging, filmy folds revealed just enough of her figure to inflame him with the realization that she wore nothing else beneath it.  He took a long breath; it was an automatic expression of contentment, but equally a steadying of his desire and a savoring of her scent.  She had showered before him, so he was already aware by the lingering perfume in the lavatory that she had dipped into her treasured stash of jessivite – the last of it, in fact – but he was nonetheless unprepared for the alluring fragrance engendered by the crystals’ comforting aroma mingling with her natural scent, heightened and sharpened by the dopamine and norepinephrine that tingled through her in tangy waves he could taste.

 

“And so are you,” he added.  He ran his hands down her arms from her shoulders to her elbows, feeling her warmth through the cool, luxurious fabric.

 

“I’m not, of course,” she demurred as she led him into the room, “but I’m vain enough to like to hear you say so.  There, see?  One of my flaws.  Incurable vanity.”

 

“And your overarching pride; don’t forget that one,” he answered slyly, taking the glass of wine she held out to him.  “We wouldn’t have you any other way.  And what of our flaws?  What is our worst?”

 

“Loving me, of course,” she replied instantly, causing him to nearly choke on the wine as the laughter caught him.

 

“Other than that, naturally,” he coughed between chortles.

 

Paha considered the question a moment.  “I sometimes worry,” she said at last, “that you are too merciful.  That your willingness to forgive will yet hurt you in ways you’ve never imagined.”

 

Vector sat on the bed, sipping the wine and contemplating the observation alongside all the repeated rejection and disgust that he had been directed towards him since becoming a Joiner.  Yet, he realized, he still forgave, and had even sought acceptance from those who overtly abjured him, people like Falner Oeth - with consequences fatal to Daizanna. Giving him some responsibility for her death? The thought was unsettling, and he set it aside for the time being, to meditate on later.

 

“We understand your concern,” he replied, “but we think we would rather forgive those unworthy of it than hold grudges against those undeserving of them.  But we also see how you are prevented the same laxity.”

 

“I’m grateful for it,” Paha murmured, sitting beside him.  “Your forgiveness, I mean.  I know you credit me with your recovery of your human side, but you have, in many ways – I hate to use this word, but there is no other – humanized me, too.”

 

“People change,” he echoed the advice she had once told him, then added, “and sometimes, for the better.”

 

Any further conversation was cut off in an exchange of wine-flavored kisses and wandering hands, and, not entirely certain how she had managed it, Vector found himself on his back with her finger-spread hands, interspersed with leisurely kisses, drawing over his torso under his shirt, rucked up to his chest, and his trousers inexplicably nowhere in sight.  She worked her way with deliberate care down the length of his body to his thighs, and the surge of fire within him made him twitch under her delicate touch, his hands clutching the bedclothes compulsively.

 

“We don't know – that feels –” he gasped in a broken voice, and struggled to recover some iota of coherence.  “What _are_ you doing?"

 

Paha paused in her ministrations, raising her head to turn mischievous eyes on him.  “Trying to confuse the Oroboro Colony as much as humanly possible.” she replied devilishly.  “Or Chiss-ly possible? Whichever. We’re not that far from Alderaan; I’m sure your link must be pretty strong at this distance.”

 

“We foresee some interesting and uncomfortable explanations in our future.  Perhaps… we should turn that link off for the time being,” Vector replied.  He propped himself up on his elbows and tried to draw his brow down into a mock scowl.  “Is this all because we told you that you were rather wicked, but only occasionally?  That wasn’t meant to be a challenge.”

 

“Maybe a little,” she grinned, returning her focus to the interrupted activity, and he struggled to keep from twisting himself in knots in reaction, his breath rasping more rapidly.  She laughed a little at the noise her attentions elicited from his throat; at this, he sat up abruptly and seized her in his arms, relishing the feel of her body through the lustrous silk as she writhed within his hands, and he nearly flung her down on the bed, keeping her dangerous fingers imprisoned with his own.  Her perilous mouth he silenced with his, and she drowned in the fervent heat of his kisses.

 

“We begin to think you are right,” he uttered against her neck as his lips traveled down the brilliant blue swath of skin.  “We are too merciful at times.” 

 

He nibbled at her collarbone, and added, “But we couldn’t have spent so long with you and not learned some of your unforgiving ways, too. We might demonstrate.”

 

Releasing one of her hands, he gave a light tug to the sash of the robe, which came undone effortlessly. A flick of his wrist cast the front of enshrouding wrap aside, and her naked cerulean body, limned in false firelight and the glow of lust, stretched below him on a field of light gray satin and bleached white sheets, like a splinter of a morning sky glimpsed through a hole in a blanket of clouds.  He moved over her, bending his head to embrace each breast in turn with his mouth, cherishing them with his lips from the base to their standing points, and, soon, unable to resist even if she wanted to, she rose to him automatically, her muscles clenching and relaxing of their own volition as she mutely requested the fulfillment of their desire.

 

With his own need so strong upon him, he would not make her beg, regardless of his playful threats promising an exquisite torment; such a game could be saved for another time.  He lowered himself slowly, working himself down between her thighs with a gentle rocking motion that both settled himself between her legs and caressed her fully open to him, and they both so yearned for the promised entrance that their delighted sighs were of the same breath when it happened.  He let her set the pace, responding to her motions and reading her desires, slowly kindling a blazing sensuality and tenderly bringing them together to a mutual ardent pitch as the pressure of their passion became too much to bear.

 

Vector’s final moment, buried within her, tore a wordless gasp and a small cry in Chenuh from Paha’s throat, and she wrapped her legs around him to secure him in her furthest depths as she felt the innermost springs of her person dissolve in a melting heat with the wave that rolled through her, flaring in conjunction with the ecstatic frisson that convulsed her aura, spurred on by the inarticulate song of his crisis and release.  The severity of it left her panting and disoriented.

 

They lay still a moment, breathing their recoveries, until he softly slid his weight aside and gathered her closely in his arms, and she curled into his embrace with an untouchable feeling of serenity and security.  Under the indolently shifting tones of the console’s artificial firelight, they stared up at the star map splayed across the ceiling, and Paha extricated one hand to point at one, far off in the Unknown Regions.

 

“That one, there,” she murmured.  “That’s the star that governs Csilla.  My home that will never again be my home."  She turned her head to look at him.  "Where’s yours?”

 

Vector scanned the ceiling, and pointed to another, in the Corva Sector of the Imperial Outer Rim.  “The planet is Jurio,” he answered softly.  “Our parents still live there.  But we have not spoken with them in a little while.  They, too, found our Joining… difficult.”

 

“They’ll understand.  In time,” Paha replied with gentle hope.  She curled her fingers against his ribs.  “But it never occurred to me that you might be as much an exile from your native land as I am from mine.”

 

“Perhaps,” he conceded.  “But we have each found a new place to call home.  We are content with that.  More than content,” he amended.  “Perhaps one day, it will not be dangerous to take you there to meet them.”

 

Paha didn’t bother inquiring about his perceived dangers – there were too many that were all too clear.  Her connections to Intelligence, the manipulations of the Star Cabal, the personal emotional hazards to Vector: showing up on his parents’ doorstep in a state so different from how they had raised him, and now with an alien and assassin trained in covert operations as a wife.  That would certainly make for an awkward Boonta Eve dinner, or whatever the Jurio equivalent was.

 

“Your mention of Csilla,” Vector said thoughtfully, “puts us in mind of a question we wanted to ask.  Twice now, we have heard you say something in Chenuh – once, just now, and once, when we first –” He colored slightly in the soft orange light, but Paha, resting on his shoulder, couldn’t see it.  “The first time we were together.  What does it mean?  It has seemed fairly… involuntary.”

 

“That’s another one of those tricky translations.”

 

“We hope it has nothing to do with nerfs.”

 

With a small amused sound, Paha wriggled a little, nestling closer against him, and answered, “No!  It just all those usual little nuances will likely make it a long translation in basic, when it’s very short in Chenuh.  To begin with, I think it is pretty common in most societies to have a concept for the body, and a concept for the soul or spirit of a person.  We have this in Chenuh, but we also have another.” 

 

She repeated one word of the phrase.  “This is a hybrid of the two.  I suppose it would best be described as recognizing that it takes both parts – the body and the spirit – to be a healthy person.  If either the body or the soul is sick, there can be neither health nor happiness.  It considers the body as the seat and house of the soul, and the soul as the animator and director of the body.  The full phrase is a sort of… oh, prayer, I suppose, or an invocation, if you like, to that concept.  A blessing for the body and the spirit.  There isn’t really a parallel concept in basic, but let me see if I can give a translation of the whole.”

 

She was silent for a moment, carefully measuring the words and crafting not only the meaning, but the dignity of the phrase in a way she hoped Vector’s poetic sense would appreciate.  At length she turned her face to the map of pinpoint lights scattered above them, and softly recited, “Praise unto the stars, for the glory of their fire is the marrow of my bone and the mainstay of my soul.”

 

Vector tightened his arms around her, captivated by the elegance of the idea, the words, and the contented glow of her aura as she spoke, and felt himself submerged in the beauty of the sentiment.  Let the Star Cabal pursue its plots and manipulations.  Let Corellia’s raging battles menace.  Let the Empire and the Republish smash their spears against their shields, and shake the galaxy with their fury.  Here, at least, there was the peaceful perfection of all he could possibly desire, and the magnificence of the moment, summed up in one phrase, overwhelmed him.  He swallowed an emotional tangle that threatened to throttle him, and pressed his lips to the top of her head.

 

“The marrow of my bone and the mainstay of my soul,” he repeated, barely above a whisper, softly running his thumb across her palm beneath their interwoven fingers.  He indulged the luxury of looking down the slender expanse of her body, from where the two graceful hills of her firm breasts rested against the sinews of his encircling arm, light tan against a supple skin of blue that darkened to nearly navy in the dim orange light, then down to where the drape of the downy white sheet delineated the strong muscles of her legs and the tempting slope of the mound between.

 

“We love you,” he said simply, his hand tracing her curves.  The tingle of arousal ran anew through her limbs, and she held herself to him, entwining her legs and arms with his own, as if every part of her being could contact every part of his.  There was something so natural and automatic in how she desired him, and something so harmonious and flawless in how the desire was satisfied, that it left her astonished if she examined the phenomenon too minutely. 

 

Never before had she had any particular wish to entertain the same man more than once or twice, let alone bind herself to him for life, and yet now she had done exactly that, fulfilling one of the most compelling demands her instincts had ever presented to her, and without the need to consult any approval but her own wishes – which was a strange enough matter in and of its own right, accustomed as she had become to obedience to a chain of command.  And to be desired in return!  Not for what power she could wield, or what favors she could grant, but for her own self. 

 

The knowledge warmed her, and she turned her face to his, skimming her lips over his gently, flitting across his closed eyes and along his cheek to his ear, and down his neck, as if the brush of her lips alone could read his features, then returned to his mouth, kissing him with greater depth as she drew out the response of his craving.  It was not long in forthcoming, but she loitered over it, tarrying with idle ease for them each to enjoy the length of the journey, and Vector returned her teasing and titillation with an equal appetite. Less distracted now by physical urges, he had the opportunity to reflect that it was only in such moments and activities as these that the humanoid races recalled their ancestral ability of communication by non-verbal means.

 

Presently, with her heart pulsing a tingling eagerness through every nerve, she glided over him and softly descended, the warmth of her thighs close against his own and the scent of her desire wild in the air he breathed, keen and heady as he inhaled sharply at the first flush of slipping into that space so mutually wanted and demanded. His hands, resting on her hips, both supported her and guided her into a rhythm that pulled them irrevocably towards that sensuous surrender they communally sought.  He savored the piquancy of her aroma and the music of her wordless exclamations, and reveled in the feel of her tightening grip as she arched, her head flung back and her face rapt in an expression of transcendent bliss, and this was now all that was required to propel him over the edge to his euphoric rush.

 

Victim to the enfeeblement of her limbs in the wake of the flood, Paha, panting, ebbed down upon him, and stretched across his chest as it rose and fell with his breathing, gradually calming.  Vector dreamily stroked his fingers along her spine, tasting the pliancy of her relaxed muscles through his touch. 

 

“I love you, too,” she murmured after a long while.

 

He made no answer except for a sound of contentment that was somewhat more than a sigh but still less than a word, and a brush of his lips against her brow, and stretched his arm out to seize the decanter and refill the glasses.  They sipped the wine in the cozy stillness until Vector, watching the deep maroon liquid circling slowly in the glass, glinting in the ochre light, spoke.

 

“We said once that we never thought of you as fragile, but… we have found we must revise that,” he observed. 

 

“Oh?” Paha prompted with indolent and amused curiosity.  “And wine makes you think this?”

 

Vector laughed quietly.  “Not exactly, no.  Have you never made a glass sing?” he inquired, and, in response to her quizzical look, he dipped his finger in his glass of wine and ran it lightly around the rim.  The room filled with a clear, crystalline tone, like a jewel of sound, delicate and musical, that continued to ring bell-like in the air for an instant even after he had stilled his hand.

 

“We know a moment – even less than a moment – where we see you exquisite and fragile and clear as this, and we hear every fiber of you singing beneath our fingers.  It’s only the frailest instant of time, just before you shatter,” he said, sounding almost awestruck.  “And we catch you in our hands.”

 

“Every piece,” Paha whispered.  “All are yours.”

 

They gave no thought or attention to time or schedule, sleeping as they felt the need to, and indulging in each other, or gratifying each other, as they felt the desire to, until Vector, idly watching the hues of satisfaction and pleasure making lazy pirouettes through her aura, teasingly asked, “How are you?”

 

With a playful chuckle, Paha answered, “Sore.”

 

“We’re sorry –” he began with some dismay.

 

She placed an arresting hand lightly against his chest.  “It wasn’t a complaint.  Quite the opposite in fact,” she smiled as she sat up and kissed him.  The movement uncurled her limbs, and she stretched, raising her arms out of their snug nest, wondering aloud, “I can’t imagine what time it must be!”

 

He caught at her hand, which was reaching for the bedside console to display the ship’s chronometer.  “Does it matter?  We’re not at Corellia yet.”

 

“True,” Paha agreed, sneaking a peek at the clock anyway, and emitting a squeak of surprise at the result.

 

“That long?” he asked, entwining his arms around her, giving a slight tug to tempt her back into the cocoon of blankets.  “We suppose we’ll need to satisfy our curiosity now.”

 

“Less than twenty hours,” she reported.  “But more than ten. I’ll leave it to your imagination to decide where in between it falls, though.”

 

“That _would_ explain why we are so hungry.”

 

Paha smirked.  “And here I figured that would have something to do with all the exercise.”

 

“That, too.”  Vector returned the saucy look with a gleam in his black eyes.  With the pressure of a light touch, he pulled her close again, and she lay down unresistingly, each seeking to draw out these peaceful, precious moments, to cherish the warmth and comfort offered by the other, and to delight in the shared serenity for as long as possible.  They would soon have no choice but to succumb to the demands of the galaxy outside this small room, but here, within, was their own, even down to the passage of time.  She settled in with a small laugh.

 

“Still,” she giggled, “I wouldn’t have thought it so long.”

 

“Out here, there is neither night nor day.  We are Dawn Herald.  And we have not yet seen a dawn to greet.  We may delay it as long as we like,” Vector answered.  The indulgent fondness of his smile warmed her as much as the contact of his embrace.  “After all – we only get one wedding night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. At 7300 words, this is one of my longest chapters. (Oops?) But I really enjoyed their engagement scene, and wanted it to go on much longer!
> 
> 2\. The letter from Phi-Ton is why I invented the surprise meeting with Anora in the last chapter. They each needed to confront/come to terms with/get over their pasts one last time/for good to each realize they were completely free to move on. Phi-Ton's letter is so sad that Vector couldn't be unaffected by it.
> 
> 3\. _arrogant [...] Give me love_ \- Not a direct quote, but the sentiment comes from the line "the demand to be loved is the greatest arrogance" from the song "When All Else Fails It Fails" from The Ataris' 2006 (and final) album "Welcome the Night." The sharp departure from their usual punk-pop sound in favor of a more alt/indie rock sound lost a lot of their core fanbase, but the album is quite good, and often sadly overlooked or dismissed.
> 
> 4\. The use of the word "strength" in Vector's vow is, yes, a deliberate allusion to the Voss Shrine of Healing revelations. She never shared the full word-by-word details of that experience with him, but he is in tune with it just the same.


	27. Razer's Edge

Cipher, returning from her inaugural meeting with Lord Razer as his subordinate, summoned her staff for a briefing.

 

"He has not, at least, dumped us into the ordinary rank-and-file, but seems to be reserving us for more specialized maneuvers, to facilitate the activities of the troops. It gives me some hope that he isn't, after all, a complete idiot." She made a wry moue of her lips nonetheless.

 

"He wasn't present in person,” she continued, “but he was there on holo to reinforce the commands from his underling, Major Nedecca. She is clearly the one that handles strategy – coordinates tactical movements, fine-tunes target selection, that sort of thing. Razer's contribution to the conversation was largely the usual Sith posturing and grandstanding.”

 

“What's your impression of the major?” inquired Lokin.

 

“Competent,” Cipher assessed fairly. “Shrewd, driven. Ambitious, like many rising stars in the Imperial military. But also arrogant, and limited by her prejudices. Based on what I overheard her saying about me as I entered, I'd say she despises working for an alien, even if he is a Sith. Unfortunately, I don't have his advantages of Force-choking her if she feels like showing me her disdain. But she shouldn't give you or Temple any problems – on that head, anyway.

 

“As for me,” Cipher continued, “I don't much care if I disgust her or not, and Nedecca seems reconciled to the idea of foisting the dirty work off on us. She's given me what I can only describe as a laundry list of tasks and targets, which Vector and I will see to."

 

Cipher almost paused, some automatic part of her subconsciously waiting for the sarcastic and suggestive comment that certainly would have sprung from Kaliyo's lips regarding Cipher and Vector's noticeable and prolonged absence during the voyage to Corellia. But Kaliyo wasn't here, and Cipher was somewhat surprised to find how much she missed the acerbic barbs of her belittling wit. The only response was Vector's simple nod of acknowledgment.

 

"Major Nedecca or Lord Razer will likely have jobs for you while we're out," Cipher continued, turning her head between Lokin, Temple, and Scorpio. "Be obedient, but not obsequious. Deferential, but not servile. We might have to submit to his orders, but we are not Razer's slaves. You all are gifted individuals: you're brave, you're skilled, and moreover, you're savvy. If Razer directs you to do something that you consider suicidal, or nearly so, trust your judgment. Call me immediately. I will intervene, and take the consequences. If anyone here is going to be defiant to Nedecca or Razer, it's going to be me; don't risk it yourselves. If you get into trouble, I will do everything I can to help you. Backup if you want it, rescue if you need it.”

 

Cipher rose from the seat where she presided over the table. "I don't intend to let the latest events break this team apart more than it already is.”

 

\- - - -

 

“Is it just us,” Vector asked thoughtfully, “or does our mysterious contact seem a bit familiar?” He crouched behind a pile of rubble that had once been part of a building, scanning the walls of Aegis Base, the local Republic Military Headquarters in this region of Corellia. Overhead, the proud skyscrapers of the corporations that called Coronet City home bowed their lofty heads, humbled by the exchange of cannon fire and bombardments in ruthless engagements between Empire and Republic. Vector lowered his macrobinoculars. “East wall. It appears to be a team with an anti-personnel gun.”

 

“You noticed that, too?” Cipher replied, raising her head to peer over the slabs of reinforced stonework, once an ornate cornice for a showy window. “I see them. Three, it looks like.”

 

She set her rifle to her shoulder to take careful aim; it would be difficult to take out all three targets before the last had the opportunity to react to the attack on the first and raised the alarm. Bracing her knee into the dirt and resting the muzzle of the rifle against the debris, she settled in for a long wait. Throughout their missions on Corellia thus far – the laundry list of tasks set by Lord Razer to effect the destruction of Aegis Base – someone had been industriously slicing into Cipher's holocalls, first to leave cryptic messages, and then to make similarly secretive requests. These had led Cipher and Vector to discover what the Imperial commanders did not yet know: the Republic was sending in a massive contingent of reinforcements. The Imperial forces would be overrun.

 

“Clearly female, in spite of the mask; Imperial accent, in spite of the disguised voice,” Vector tallied. “But it was the clear knowledge she has of the Star Cabal that clinched it for us.”

 

“Add in the admission that she was looking forward to working together again,” Cipher commented, “and it doesn't leave many possibilities.”

 

“Keeper,” nodded Vector, continuing to scan their immediate area closely while Cipher's attention was fixed on the base walls.

 

“I sure hope so. It will be nice working with a proper handler again. This whole military factotum thing isn't really to my taste – I feel I can't ever be sure if we're tapped for these jobs because we're good, or because we're expendable. Intelligence invests too much in their agents to waste them, but I can't trust Nedecca or Razer to be that accommodating.” She flexed her fingers around the stock of the rifle as the targets came clearly into view. “Here we go...”

 

The professional consideration was not, Vector saw easily, the only aspect of the speculation that concerned Cipher. There was a gleam of hopefulness in her aura that indicated the prospect of Keeper's recovery was a matter of personal interest as well. After informing him of the Star Cabal's attack on Keeper and the Watchers, Paha had said little about the issue since, but for one who knew her as well as Vector did, it was not impossible to see her hidden concern for her former handler and boss. If Keeper were back among the able and willing, that would be a definite sign that things were, at last, starting to look up. In the last communique, they had been instructed to make contact via a secure line in Razer's conference room, hopefully to have a real conversation at last – but they had to complete this mission, first.

 

A brief time later, Cipher finished installing the portable baradium warhead on the generator pipes deep within the Aegis Base. The chirp in her intercom earpiece sounded almost as soon as she stepped back to survey her handiwork.

 

“This is Major Nedecca. Beginning countdown on warhead. At zero, everything inside Aegis Base will be reduced to component particles. You might want to get out.”

 

“At least this time, they gave us the courtesy of a heads-up,” Cipher shot a darkly amused glance at Vector. “Fancy a bit of a jog?”

 

“Doctor Lokin would be pleased to hear you taking so active an interest in your own health,” Vector replied. “And the sooner we return to Lord Razer's base, the sooner we can get on that secure line and find out why Keeper had us pull data on Republic troop movements. Shall we?”

 

\- - - -

 

Lord Razer was particularly effusive in his outpourings of triumph as Cipher and Vector entered his war room, and Cipher considered herself fortunate that they had been absent for the initial self-congratulatory remarks as well as his declarations of favor for his staff. Being a Sith lord's favorite was as hazardous as being loathed by one, and receiving special praise from Lord Razer made Cipher even more uncomfortable than she usually felt at being the center of attention.

 

That feeling of inquietude didn't abate when she gave Razer the information that extensive Republic reinforcements were already en route, and Razer all but dismissed the news with more vainglorious posturing about imminent and ultimate victory, without regard to the cost of Imperial lives. It was such a relief when one of Razer's captains called him to a meeting with the other Sith lords that Cipher was tempted to hand the captain a thousand credits on the spot.

 

As soon as the room emptied, Cipher crossed immediately to the holoterminal.

 

“Time to see if our surmise is correct,” she said, raising an eyebrow at Vector as she entered in the contact codes. The terminal display promptly shot up an image, a female form, masked and disguised, and already uploading a decryption algorithm. The disguise flickered and vanished, revealing the welcome and familiar face of Keeper.

 

“Here we are, Cipher. Together again,” she greeted with a smile that was no less genuine for being small and somewhat strained.

 

“Am I ever glad to see you,” Cipher shook her head, waving one hand in exasperation. “You fall into a coma, and the whole galaxy goes mad. It's good to see you again.”

 

“It's good to see you,” Keeper agreed, “even under the circumstances. I've seen your report on your Voss work. I'm sorry I couldn't give you more guidance, but you handled it well. There's no time for additional questions. The conspirators dismantled Intelligence because we were close to unraveling their plan.”

 

“No surprise there,” Cipher replied. She thought of Vector's analysis of Hunter's behavior and added, “Hunter calls to taunt me every time I make some headway. He's starting to sound a little desperate.”

 

“That may very well be so. They're exerting unprecedented influence on Corellia. You weren't transferred here by accident,” Keeper admitted, confirming another of Cipher's deductions, “you're here to discover their endgame and expose them before it's too late.”

 

“Glad to see my instincts aren't rusty,” Cipher inclined her head. “We'll have to defer our catching up until later – what do you have for me?”

 

“The enemy is monitoring and manipulating military activity. They concealed news of those Republic reinforcements, and I suspect they're doctoring Imperial records, as well,” Keeper stated. “I need an unaltered accounting of our forces on Corellia with _real_ data. I can analyze why the conspiracy is pulling strings.”

 

Cipher dug a knuckle thoughtfully into her chin, and considered what little she knew of Razer's forces. “I've met some of the commanders,” she said, “but I can't guarantee their information is good. They may have their own reasons to play fast and loose with their numbers.”

 

“We do have one source,” Keeper replied, holding up a hand to forestall Cipher's speculations. “The Dark Council recently sent Moff Zamar to perform a top secret accounting of every soldier, vehicle, and weapon we've lost.”

 

With a small huff of disdain, Cipher answered, “The moff would have his hands full. Given what I've observed here, that will be quite a list just in Lord Razer's brigade alone.”

 

“I imagine so,” Keeper frowned. “But Zamar has completed his tour, and is taking a skyhopper to the spaceport shortly. Intercept him en route and acquire his report before Hunter's group can alter it. A series of false guide beacons around the Labor Valley battlegrounds should be enough to get his shuttle to land. Getting the report is up to you.”

 

“Let's hope he doesn't hold me responsible for his flight plan,” Cipher quipped.

 

“If it helps, there's a code word – 'chromatic' – that might convince Zamar to cooperate. Alternatively, it could raise suspicion. Do what you have to, and I'll be in touch.”

 

“Take care,” Cipher said as the holo went dark. She turned to Vector. “It's nice to see her so much like her old self,” she said to him quietly. “Let's get to work.”

 

\- - - -

 

Moff Zamar was not, predictably, amused to find his shuttle forced down among the Republic enemy, but he became more cooperative when Cipher risked the code word Keeper had supplied. While Cipher could only guess at its significance, an unguarded word dropped from Zamar tempted Cipher to deduce that it related, perhaps, to some long-ago interaction between Zamar and the new Minister of Intelligence. “I owe him that much,” Zamar had said, and fully aware of Cipher's connection to Intelligence – who else could he have meant? Vector's prior assessment may have been accurate: the Minister of Intelligence might very well be beginning to run low in his bank of favors owed. So many people, spending so much of themselves, for such a monumental purpose.

 

On her part, Cipher felt that she owed Zamar in return, and only after leading him and his guards to safety beyond the Labor Valley lines did she submit his report to Keeper for her analysis. With Razer's war-lust temporarily sated with the destruction of Aegis Base, Cipher and Vector returned to the _Phantom_ to await Keeper's report. It didn't take long.

 

“To date,” Keeper explained after a brief exchange of pleasantries, “our reports have shown the Empire at an advantage on Corellia. Our troops are more numerous, our weapons more advanced. Zamar's report suggests this advantage was a lie.”

 

“Considering the conspirators' goals, that's not really a surprise,” Cipher sighed. “How grave is the risk to the Imperial forces?”

 

“In a word? Bad,” Keeper folded her arms. “Darths Thanaton, Baras, Vowrawn... half the Sith on the planet are expending Imperial troops on power plays instead of the war. Add to that the Republic's reinforcements and we're an even match. On track for both sides to be obliterated – hold on, there's a message coming through.”

 

The disgusted curl of Cipher's lip, disdaining the pompous machinations of the Sith, was still distorting her face as the image of Lord Razer took place of Keeper on the holo in a broadcast to his entire force.

 

“The resistance and its Jedi friends have struck back!” he proclaimed. “Report to my forward base. The calves have come to the butcher!”

 

“You'd better lend a hand,” Keeper chimed in evenly as Razer's transmission ended. “The Empire can't afford a loss right now.”

 

“I'm on my way. Keep working on the data – find out what the conspirators are planning,” Cipher replied.

 

“Understood,” Keeper nodded. “Contact me when you can, and we'll plan the next step.”

 

The holo clicked off as the call ended, and Cipher was a little curious about the thoughtful expression she caught on Vector's face. He saw her piqued interest, and before she had time to ask, he observed, “We don't know if you noticed it, but your interaction with Keeper has vastly changed.”

 

“I didn't notice, no,” she admitted.

 

“By the end of that conversation, it sounded more like you were giving her the orders, not the other way around,” he explained. “And her orders are sounding more like suggestions, to us.”

 

He was right, Cipher realized. The barriers between the ranks of Intelligence were dissolving. It made sense, in the wake of the dissolution of Intelligence itself, and the ripples of that monumental action of the Star Cabal would be felt, from the galactic scale to the personal one, for some time to come.

 

\- - - -

 

Lord Razer paid for his hubris and cockiness. Cipher and Vector entered the base warily, senses on alert from the hot smell of blaster fire and the sight of the fallen defenders and attackers in equal number, and arrived at his war room just in time to see him fall at the hand of a Jedi, who promptly turned his attention to the remaining surviving Imperials, Cipher included. She tried not to fall into the same traps of egotism that Razer jumped willingly into, but she would have been lying if she said she didn't feel some pride at succeeding where he spectacularly failed. The Jedi lay dead. And if she read the situation right, she was free – relatively speaking, anyway.

 

“Situation resolved,” Cipher reported to Keeper shortly after. “The attackers are dead. So is Lord Razer.”

 

“It's happening everywhere,” Keeper confirmed. “Sith and Jedi countering one another, playing into the conspirators' hands. The Star Cabal saw Corellia coming, and they're using the war to decimate two military forces at once. I can't believe I didn't see it...”

 

“You see it now, though,” Cipher answered. “So what's your plan to stop them?”

 

Keeper refocused herself from the distraction of regret. “We know their methods here, and we have data from Voss and Belsavis. I think I can find them. I've tracked conspirator resources to an airship above the city – a possible drop point or communications hub. It's defended by a team of mercenaries. Take out the mercenaries while they're resupplying on the ground, and the ship's docking codes are yours.”

 

“What kind of mercenaries?”

 

“Corporate assassins, formerly of Eidolon Security. But aboard the ship...that's the real danger,” Keeper said, a note of hesitation and concern creeping into her voice. “I want you to allow yourself to be captured... and interrogated. They'll ask what you've discovered, and how we're responding. You will break under torture and confess that the Empire has secret reinforcements en route to Corellia.”

 

There was a span of a few heartbeats where Cipher made no reply, and Vector could see the struggle in her aura as the force of her will exerted herself. With a voice somewhat more detached than she felt, she answered, “They've worked out everything to the last man. A discovery like that...”

 

“...would force them to scramble. And in the process, they'll expose themselves,” concluded Keeper. “I can follow their trail to the inner circle – not just identify their methods or resources, but locate our final target. Their center of operations. I know it's not ideal, but I can't think of anything else.”

 

Keeper's voice sharpened with strain as she spoke, slowly adopting a tone that sounded almost desperate. It wasn't like her to be rattled, and Cipher spoke cautiously, wary of pushing her further.

 

“I've never heard you like this before,” she hazarded. She felt a natural concern for Keeper out of the simple virtue of their personal, though distant, friendship, but there was a professional aspect that gave added weight to the topic: Cipher was about to throw herself into the hands of a group who used murder and brainwashing as a matter of everyday function, on Keeper's advice. That made the professional consideration a bit more personal, indeed. “Are you all right?”

 

“Yes,” Keeper answered, bowing her head with a sigh. “I apologize. The situation is difficult. If we fail here, I don't think we'll have another chance. Losing Intelligence will have been just the start.”

 

Keeper squared her shoulders, giving Cipher a level look. “I can't guarantee you a way off that airship. But if we can't trick the Star Cabal, the Empire and the Republic both face annihilation.”

 

“I get it,” Cipher replied. “And I'll do the best I can.”

 

“I know,” Keeper said. “I'm sending you locations to check for the mercenaries. Get the docking codes, and we'll talk one last time before you leave for the airship.”

 

\- - - -

 

Keeper's parting words didn't leave Cipher feeling encouraged. She was trusting everything to Keeper's plan, and if she were off her game – if her analysis were wrong – if she were still suffering from effects or influence from the Cabal's mental attack – Cipher broke off her fretful worrying, scanning the speeder garage one last time for hidden enemies before emerging from cover. She had been almost silent since her conversation with Keeper, and Vector could see the apprehension eating at her, harping on her nerves like an incessant discordant note sounded over and over. He laid a hand on her arm as she stood up.

 

“You don't have to do this,” he said. “We can find another way.”

 

“Unfortunately,” Cipher replied quietly, “I think I do. Have to, I mean. I can't see another way – not one that Keeper wouldn't have thought of already. Not in the time allotted.”

 

Her expression was inscrutable, a close-held and carefully-cultivated blank canvas. She held her holo loosely in her hand, her fingers twitching once or twice against its smooth surface, the only outward sign to betray the inner nervousness that quivered at the edges of her aura. With a small breath and a seizing of her resolution, she dialed up Keeper.

 

“Scanning the mercenary docking codes,” Keeper said, in her usual business-like and objective manner. “Authenticity confirmed – you can land a speeder on the conspirators' airship with these. When you break under interrogation, tell them...”

 

She paused, her voice fading as a faintly unfocused look cast a shadow across her eyes.

 

“Keeper?" broke in Cipher.  "Are you there?”

 

“Apologies,” she shook her head, raising a hand to her brow. “It's been a long day.”

 

Vector's keen vision caught the flicker of apprehension that flitted across Cipher's face in conjunction with the corresponding uncertainty rippling her aura. Whatever was going on with Keeper, it was not bolstering Cipher's confidence, but she let it pass without comment.

 

“You need to tell the conspirators,” Keeper said, straightening again “that Imperial reinforcements are coming to Corellia. That the Empire and Republic aren't evenly matched after all. If I don’t hear from you in twenty-four hours, I’ll try to arrange a rescue. But I don’t know what you’ll find, and I can’t make a promise. Keeper out.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been going through my past chapters to fix minor typos and to tidy up small issues in the language (redundancies, using the same word too often too close together, etc.). It is amazing that even after multiple editing sessions and proofreads, errors still manage to get through. It is equally amazing to me that I am rounding the corner into 130,000 words, and my original draft text (one single document, since I had never intended on something that would require being broken into a file per chapter) is over 200 pages. I appreciate everyone's patience and enthusiasm for sticking with me so long! 
> 
> Also, after I posted this chapter, I came up with a much better name for it. Chapter titles are sometimes the most difficult part of getting a chapter posted.
> 
> I have had the bulk of the next chapter already written for almost 2 months now, and am working now on fine-tuning it. Those who have played the story know what is coming...


	28. Corellian Cataclysm

Cipher was silent for the first half of their journey to the ship at the coordinates Keeper provided, and Vector kept a watchful eye on her aura, strung with tension. Sensing his scrutiny, she glanced sidelong at him and asked abruptly, “Have you ever witnessed an interrogation?”

 

He swallowed a dryness in his mouth and answered, “Interviews, yes. Interrogations, no.”

 

She made no answer for a moment, then quietly added, “This isn’t going to be pretty.”

 

She pursed her lips, then explained, “For us to survive this, it needs to be convincing. If the information is cheap, they won’t value it. I will have to sell it dearly. And –” Cipher's voice caught in her throat with a faint crackle that she cleared with a small cough before she could continue. “I strongly suspect they will make you watch. To break you. Or to break me. You are going to see things, and hear things, that you won’t want to. Don’t be a hero. No matter what I say, no matter what they do, don’t be a hero. I’ll give in, but only when I’m sure Hunter will believe it.”

 

It was a long time before Vector replied, “We understand.” The silence that stretched out in the wake of his two words troubled him, and eventually, in a tone exposing the strain of his struggle to sound reassuring, he added, “We’ll be at your back. We will come out of this.”

 

Cipher reached over and laid her hand on his, although she didn’t take her eyes from the sight of a stationary ship on the approaching horizon, anchored between the towers of Coronet City.

 

“I promise I will do everything to protect you,” she murmured. “And you know how I feel about promises.”

 

“Agent,” he replied hoarsely, “it is not us we are worried about.”

 

\- - - -

 

Cipher landed the speeder and looked around her as she hopped out. This was not at all what she had expected: a pleasure barge, gaming tables, free-flowing drinks, and a crowd of Corellian citizens, dressed to the nines, laughing and dancing and raising cheers whenever a particularly vibrant explosion destroyed any nearby building.

 

“This is insane!” Cipher exclaimed, resisting the inclination to double check the coordinates Keeper had provided. This was undoubtedly the correct place, if the small cluster of thoroughly mercenary-like figures on the upper deck were any indication.

 

“It’s a masquerade gone mad,” Vector agreed, aghast.

 

As they wove among the drunken revelers, some nihilistically enthusiastic for the destruction, some drowning their sorrows for their lost homes, businesses, and fortunes, they met a protocol droid who made them welcome, offered them drinks, and bid them enjoy the party among these doomed elite of Corellia, enjoying one last gasp of the high life before the end of the world. It was ludicrous, and the juxtaposition of the frivolity against the situation Cipher knew she was about to meet almost made her laugh in a fit of bitter humor. This was the fate of those who had failed to flee to Nar Shaddaa in time. She could only hope her own fortitude and skill would see them through to a better outcome.

 

“It’s a good a way to go out as any, I suppose,” observed Cipher to Vector as they crossed the deck. She made a noise of derision. “But I hope none of them get a notion that I’m here to save any of them!”

 

“They don’t seem to care,” Vector observed, shaking his head.

 

“That could change. But I’m not inclined to rescue these,” she waved a disdainful hand, using the nonchalance to steel herself for the confrontation she knew lay before her. “Too pampered to lift a finger for their own futures, and too inept to do anything but party as the world burns.”

 

They mounted to the upper deck and the holoterminal, guarded by the expectant cluster of Eidolon mercenaries and occupied by the familiar image of Hunter himself.

 

“If it isn't my favorite ex-Intelligence agent,” Hunter beamed with a smarmy leer. “Retirement's keeping you busy. The truth is, I'm glad you made it. We didn't have the chance to say goodbye.”

 

“You’re throwing parties now,” Cipher replied saccharinely. “I didn't know you could exhibit such social graces. You certainly never have before.”

 

“These people were Corellia's movers and shakers – the obscenely rich,” Hunter gloated. “My apocalypse party keeps them focused on themselves instead of doing anything constructive."

 

“A good host,” interjected Vector flatly, “attends in person.”

 

“Is Kaliyo still on trial?” Hunter continued, ignoring the interruption and asking questions only to prove how connected he was. “She would've loved this party.”

 

“Not really,” Cipher corrected. “She doesn't have the patience for insufferable boors.”

 

“Ah well, it's too bad she's missing out. It's a great excuse to see the end of the world in style,” Hunter smirked. “No more Jedi, no more Sith – a new galaxy.”

 

“Your delusions of grandeur never fail to astonish me, Hunter,” Cipher said. “It'll be the same galaxy – you'll just have new enemies.”

 

Hunter made a dismissive wave of his hand. “Not once Corellia spirals out of control. The Republic and Empire will obliterate each other, and the Force-sensitive orders will go extinct. For the first time in fourteen hundred years, ordinary people rule. No more getting caught in crusades or begging at temples for scraps. No need to be afraid. Just one galaxy, united, at peace.”

 

“There won't be peace. You won't be able to control the anarchy you will create,” Cipher asserted. “It doesn't matter if the Star Cabal sets itself up as the galaxy's undisputed ruler. There will still be Force-sensitive children born in your new order. You can't control that.”

 

“We already control what's important; it's time to stop hiding,” boasted Hunter. He put his head to one side, and his voice took on a contemplative tone that made Cipher more uncomfortable than his usual taunting one. “You know you're the only person I can talk to about this? The others – they don't really chat like you and me.”

 

“I'm sure your others all manage to bear up under the loss tolerably well.” Cipher didn't bother to mollify her sarcasm.

 

Hunter folded his hands with a mockery of a sigh, his pensive tone gone as quickly as it had appeared. “That's why I'm sad it has to end.”

 

“We can taste a foreign substance,” Vector warned in a low voice, noting the short astromech droid that served drinks beside them. A cloud of vile green gas erupted from a small port nearest Cipher, reeking acridly of a burning, chemical odor.

 

“Coma gas,” Hunter explained. “Figured you wouldn't cooperate.”

 

Despite the goal of her mission, Cipher couldn’t resist the automatic urge to fight against the numbing effect of the gas, useless as she knew it would be. It was purely instinct, and she fell to her knees, dimly aware of Vector sprawling on the deck beside her, before she slumped to the floor, overcome. Her vision faded to black and the last thing she heard was Hunter’s cold voice demanding she be prepped for interrogation.

 

\- - - -

 

Cipher came to more slowly than she wished, and promptly changed her mind, wishing she hadn’t bothered waking at all as a mercenary fist, apropos of nothing, struck her violently across her face. This time, she didn’t even have the chance to fight the unconsciousness as it reclaimed her.

 

She knew it wouldn’t be the last time she blacked out.

 

When she awoke a second time, there was no way to know how long her wits had been wandering afield from her body, but she felt it best to employ them now, while she still had them under her command. She held still, reaching out with her senses to the unknown space around her. It was too dark to tally the number of foes. Three, certainly, most likely four, or more. Her arms were bound behind her, her feet pinioned, and she could feel the chill of a metal seat seeping through the scuffed pants of her uniform, further stiffening her numbing limbs. A slight impression of a familiar air and a faint glimpse of a gold-brown shirt from the corner of her eye told her of Vector’s nearby presence, both a comfort and a troubling weight. She wished she had been less accurate in her prediction: this was not going to be pretty. At all. And he was going to see every bit of it.

 

The Eidolon goons did not bother wasting the effort on asking her questions immediately. Those, she knew, would not come until later. This part – the preliminary backhands, the introductory closed-fist punches – these were just the opening salvos, merely to soften her up, so to speak, preparatory to their beginning their work in earnest. Cipher kept her composure, holding her focus on her mission, or distracting herself with a variety of mental tricks and Intelligence training.

 

They took turns, with a slow increase in the severity of their attacks, with only one goal: brutality without the relief of unconsciousness. As her eyes began to glaze, a basin of icy water upended over her head brought clarity and pain in equal measure, until her first layer of defenses began to flag, and it at last seemed as though the mercenaries were ready to talk. Or, rather, that Hunter, at least, was ready to do so, judging by his fresh-faced and rested appearance on the nearby holoterminal, nearly the only source of illumination in the dark and indistinctly-shaped room.

 

“You took something we wanted,” Hunter said flatly. “Moff Zamar's report. Now we have questions.”

 

Cipher already knew what her answer would cost her, but she gave it anyway. “There's nothing you can do to me that I haven't already suffered,” she answered with an attempt at a saucy tone. “So why don't you show me what you've got?”

 

She kept her face carefully averted from where she knew Vector stood ramrod straight against the wall, neither wishing to see the look she feared was on his face nor wishing to betray their concern for each other. Give them nothing, she told herself, give them nothing they can use against you.

 

“You should've kept your brainwashing program,” Hunter admonished. “It'd be less painful.”

 

“Oh, Hunter, I bet you say that to all the girls,” Cipher replied with a toss of her head.

 

One of the mercenaries glowered over her, his scarred face twisted with malevolence.

 

“Moff Zamar's report. What did it say, and who did you tell?” He sounded insistent, but he gave Cipher no opportunity to respond following his question with a vicious right hook across her jaw. She braced herself for it, although she recognized the folly of it even before the blow landed, and with this, Cipher knew her interrogation was about to begin for real.

 

This was but the first revolution of what she suspected would be a long and nasty spiral of increasing savagery. The circle turned slowly, but surely, with sickeningly cyclical repetitions of their questions, her refusals, their violence, and her vain struggles to mask her pain to spare Vector while still letting them think they were winning. She could keep time only by the beating of her heart, throbbing searingly through the bruises across her swollen face, her aching arms, and her nauseated stomach, and even then, it served only as a means of distraction, counting its uneven pulse to focus on something other than the torment. The torment was brutal.

 

They had cut her hands loose at one point, letting the blood and feeling come screaming back into her numbed fingers, giving her just enough returning feeling for her to reel at the agonized sensation of her joints fracturing beneath the heels of callous boots. They had taken her rifle, her sidearm, her vibroblade, and Vector's electrostaff; now she had not even her hands to fight with. The return to numbness when they rebound her hands was something like a relief, although that relief was short-lived. Perhaps looking for something less physically demanding on their part, they shifted tactics to the use of a shock stick, electrocuting her nerves into cooperation.

 

“High pain threshold,” observed one of the mercenaries with detachment, peering into her battered face as another drove his fist into it at regular intervals. “Lapsing in and out...”

 

If he had more to say, it was unintelligible to Cipher as her dazed senses abandoned her again.

 

Vector had been kept standing against the wall for the duration, unable to relieve the exhaustion in his legs as the hours crept by. On Alderaan, or any planet where he spent sufficient days to become familiar with its patterns, he could often maintain a general idea of the time of day simply based on subconscious observation of the world around him via sight, sound, and scent: flowers that bloomed at the first touch of dawn, or remained stubbornly closed until releasing their fragrance on the evening air. The crepuscular creatures who stirred in the twilight hours of dawn and nightfall. The cast of sunlight against the leaves of a tree, or the wheeling of the stars overhead. Nature offered a clock anyone could read, given sufficient time to learn it.

 

But in here, locked within the dark chambers of the barge, the only sounds were the engines and Paha's agonized groans. With no ports or windows, the sun might have stood still, or sped by the hours, and he would be none the wiser, as the only sights were Paha, the thugs, and their brutality. The gardens of Coronet City were wiped out, so even beyond this hull, no flower's bloom could overcome the stench of hot metal, blood, and death. Within the hull, there was only the close and heavy smell of confinement and terror. He had no way to know how long it had been. Time no longer mattered. Only the pain did, and it was winning its hold on her. He could see it.

 

To stand still, to watch and hear the woman he loved suffer the most prolonged and protracted beating – it was past endurance. His first impulse, at the beginning, had been to avert his gaze, to block at least one of his senses from witnessing the brutality even if he could not block his ears, and spare her the knowledge of the man she loved seeing her at her weakest and most vulnerable – Paha had such a spirit as would resent that – but this, he felt a moment later, was cowardly. If she could endure the act, then he must endure the firsthand knowledge of it. So he turned his face to her, steeling his nerves against the impulse to protect her, to rescue her, even to flinch in sympathy, and he made careful note of every ghastly atrocity she suffered at their hands, refusing to let her suffer alone.

 

The meditations of the Killiks could offer help to both of them, and he began the lowest of droning hums, soft and deep in his chest, below the threshold of normal ears and below the mechanical whine of the barge’s engines. The mercenaries would not hear it. Paha wouldn’t even be able to hear it. But she had been exposed to Killik pheromones, and while those were far too insufficient to alter her, the cells in her body had touched the collective chemical memories of the hive. They would recognize the resonance of the sound he made, faint as it was, and would – he hoped – draw strength from it, as could he. Doctor Lokin would surely have some biochemical explanation for it, full of long words – a sympathetic response of the autonomic nervous system, or maybe a cytokine-dependent adaptive immunological memory – but for Vector, it was an almost automatic action, based on an innate instinct and a fundamental drive as rooted within him as the beat of his own heart.

 

Vector could only pray that it helped her, and perhaps it did, physically, but it made the ordeal no easier for him. His dizzy feeling of sick dread stabbed at him with greater severity each time the torturers succeeded in extracting a cry of pain from her lips. Those successes were coming more and more frequently now, and her weakened aura wavered raggedly as her determination and strength failed more and more often. She failed to muffle her agonized shriek in response to a series of strikes to her unprotected kidneys, and Vector could not restrain himself from starting involuntarily towards her, crying out, “Agent! Hang on – someone will come…”

 

He was driven back by a severe blow to the gut, and he doubled over, winded, and caught sight of Cipher's face for an instant. Her eyes, dull and glazed with exhaustion and pain, nonetheless held a warning and a reminder. No heroics. _Let me take this_ , they said, _so you don’t have to._ Hell and damnation, he writhed inwardly, did she not see how much worse a prospect that was? Did she not understand that he would take twice as many punches as she had already faced if it meant sparing her but once? A blow to the head drove him to his knees, dazed, and, horror-stricken, he realized what she already had. No one was coming.

 

Cipher had long since lost count of how many times her consciousness had been beaten out of her head, and she had trouble gauging herself and her own judgment. Was it enough? Had the time come to offer her fake break? Someone was speaking, and the voice seemed a long way off, indistinct through the noxious, glutinous fog that submerged her senses. Evidently, she had been expected to respond, and had failed to do so, and she only came to this slow conclusion as she felt herself falling wonderingly through the air, flung out of her seat by the force of the fist connecting with the side of her temple, her ears ringing with the impact. Her shoulder slammed into the deck, immediately followed by her head, and she waffled between an acute awareness of bodily pain and the blessed release of insensibility.

 

The next thing she found herself truly aware of was the tingling pain of blood surging back into her unbound and cramped feet, a spastic burning sensation that bewildered her in the space in between the heartbeats that drove the pins-and-needles prickles through her flesh. Why in the world would they bother to untie her feet? The only feeble conclusion she could draw was that she should prepare herself, debilitated and paralyzed though she was, for the sound and feeling of the bones in her feet being broken, too.

 

Too stupid and worn down by exhaustion and misery to kick out, and knowing that she was in no condition to fight even if she could have recognized the timing to do so, she lay still, pressing her hot cheek into the cold metal of the patterned deck plating until the unmistakable jingling sound of a belt buckle, close behind her head, cut through her torpor. An unseen hand simultaneously jerked roughly at the back of her uniform pants, and a nauseating wave of dread, the severity of which she had never felt before, engulfed her, her every nerve plunged cold with a panic she could barely keep at bay. Worst of all, precisely at this moment, her eyes locked with Vector's across the harsh landscape of the deck grates, and she read in his countenance all the same shattering certainty and terror that she knew he could see in her own. There was no hiding it.

 

_No. Oh no. No no no no no no no no._ She recoiled, cringing instinctively, and the reflexive flash of her next coherent thought surprised even her.  _Not in front of Vector. Not in front of Vector. I can endure it. But not – no no, holy stars, please, no, not in front of Vector._

 

Her mute prayer, barely lucid, seemed even already a waste: Here within this revolting prison, there were no stars to wish upon. This torture cell was utterly divided from the ineffable comfort of any galactic beauty; it was lit only by the sickly glow of a handful of tepid light fixtures, and offering not even a reminder of the constant pinpoints of light by which she lived and by which she loved.

 

“Hoy,” snapped a disgruntled voice. Terror had resharpened her addled wits and the clarity it brought permitted her to recall these awful eternal seconds with perfection later, when, in truth, given the slightest chance, she would have let the Minders lock them away as they had her memories of Darth Jadus' Eradication Day. The voice didn't belong to whoever stood over her, roughly shoving aside one leg with a callous foot. It was further off.

 

“You sure you want to do that?” the voice continued. “You know aliens; filthy lot, all of them. Who knows what you'd end up with. Can't stop you, course, but don't cry when your crank rots off.”

 

The unseen hand at her trousers paused, irresolute, and a second voice broke the temporary silence.

 

“Me, neither, mate,” the second voice agreed in a broad accent. “I like my pecker just as it is. Undiseased, and firmly attached. You're crazy if you risk otherwise.”

 

The tension of the fabric against her waist eased as the hand released it, and the foot pinning her leg aside drew away, apparently belonging to one who shared his companions' biases. Paha, eyes closed and breathing hard, wondered if the stars had heard her prayer after all. One of Vector's phrases – _the radiance of the stars shines through_ – flitted across her mind as she thanked them for her unexpected deliverance, so strangely, as a direct result of the bigotry that had hounded her accomplishments most of her life. 

 

So much of her had been violently torn away that she felt reduced to but a fragment of herself, crippled and stripped of so many of her defenses and coping mechanisms that she had to cut forcibly through the rubble left behind to remind herself to mask her relief. She could not let them guess how far into terror this threat had thrown her. It took nearly everything she had left to keep herself from giving them that advantage, but as she opened her eyes, the sight of Vector's appalled face staring back into her own told her that at least one man in the room had observed every grisly, abhorrent second of it.

 

But he would not betray her, either, not for the entire galaxy. As he could draw forth his more human aspects, so could he summon up his more Killik attitudes, and she recognized that state on him now, his face so closed and reserved as to make his humanity sit upon it like an implausible mask. Only his eyes, boring into her with an intensity that frightened her in quite a different way than the fear she felt towards their captors, revealed the turmoil that seethed within him, just below the surface in a boiling, billowing nebula of rage and anguish. She could not have thought that there was something darker than this room, and yet, here within its murky confines, Vector's eyes burned yet darker, stark and black like an abyss. 

 

Only her clear injunction prohibiting his interference held him still, and it was a struggle of the most acutely painful kind to obey it. Every urge within him, whether Killik or human, was telling him to get up, to lash out, to fight, to strangle each member of this gang with his bare hands, to exult in the feeling of crushing out their breath and their lives with his cold fingers, to shout rather than sing the Song of the Avenger as he exacted his ruthless repayment of their brutality to Paha, without a letting a single affront pass unrewarded. It was more difficult than he had ever anticipated to resist the compulsion of his instincts, and only by keeping his eyes focused on her own could he manage it, with those fiery depths enabling him to block out the sight of her aura, wrung through with pain, fear, grief, and humiliation. He hoped she would understand the single intelligible message he could form out of his savage thoughts.

 

 _They'_ _ve taken enough from you._ _Let them have their victory._

 

After a moment, Paha blinked at him slowly, and although he knew by this sign she understood, he was nonetheless sickened anew. He recognized the language she used to respond: more than once he had seen her implement the same deliberate, languid movement of her eyelids to silently encourage him in their treasured time together, when he lay between the sheets of her bed – _their_ bed – or between the summits of her breasts or the embrace of her legs.

 

Those legs were still spread askew on the deck floor as the mercenary refastened the buckle of his belt. Cheated of his prize by his own prejudices, or perhaps detecting some hint of Paha's relief, he vented his frustration, turning sharply and delivering a heinously vicious kick with his chanlon-reinforced boots to the soft flesh at the juncture of her thighs, driving the wind so thoroughly out of her with the deluging wave of pain that the second kick barely registered in her overwhelmed mind as she fainted.

 

She was a long time coming around this time, and had she been given the choice, she would have rather stayed under. Her legs were bound again, and she had been thrown back on the metal chair, its hard and unforgiving surface pressing against her throbbing tissues. The scar-faced goon stood before her.

 

“Look... we could do this forever,” he drawled, and she recognized that he was the one whose initial disgust of her had inadvertently rescued her from rape. She wondered idiotically if perhaps she should feel some twisted measure of gratitude towards him for that, but Paha was simply too exhausted to make the effort such magnanimity would require. The thug folded his arms. “You ready to talk?”

 

_Let them have their victory_ , she repeated to herself, and she opened her mouth, her swollen tongue and bruised lips slurring her words.  

 

“Moff Zamar's report. It showed we didn't have enough troops,” she mumbled, her voice breaking as she sipped gingerly at the stale air, trying to put as little strain as possible on her aching ribs. She winced as she took the breath necessary to finish her message: “Reinforcements are on the way... A new fleet. From the Auril Sector.... led by a Sith Lord.”

 

The mercenary looked at his comrades. “Tell the boss. Now.”

 

He said something else, but Cipher, struggling to keep alert, had already let her head flop listlessly on her chest, feigning the unconsciousness that she barely staved off. She smelled the metallic odor of her own blood drying in her tattered uniform jacket, and the pungent dampness of her own urine drying in her pants. She was in no position to fight, even if she could free her shattered hands before she was shot for the attempt, and they might say something unguarded while thinking she was too senseless to hear.

 

“Those are the orders. Murdering an Imperial officer draws suspicion – the boss has someone else to do that. Get a speeder prepped. Dump them in the park,” were the final words she heard before the darkness engulfed her one last time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I wrote a lot of this chapter probably a month and a half ago, but ended up doing some pretty major revisions on it after developing the characters' relationships more. A lot of the essentials remained the same, though.
> 
> 2\. This is a pretty brutal chapter; the scene in the game was surprisingly brutal, too. I recall sitting at my computer with my hand over my mouth as I watched, and this for the second time in the Agent story line (the first was the civilians being slaughtered by Jadus as the result of my player choices), so I commend the game writers again for going into some pretty heavy territory once more. In-game, Agent comes out of this experience a little roughed up, but essentially fine, and more or less blithely ready to head off to the next part of the quest. That's fine for an in-game mechanic, but hardly realistic. Also, an increase in endurance isn't going to keep injuries from happening, it's just going to keep the injuries from feeling as severe as they are - meaning that more injuries are necessary to effect the same result that could be exacted from someone with a lower pain threshold. Basically, bones don't ask permission before breaking.
> 
> 3\. In addition to (2), to have all of that happen with a companion (especially a love interest) as witness to it is some beyond-the-pale savagery. Like the Agent, the game goes blithely on, but to watch something like that would result in some severe fallout. Next chapter will focus almost wholly on this, for certain.
> 
> 4\. A word about the threatened rape: I went back and forth on including this many times. I am _not_ in any way, shape, or form even a casual supporter of "rape as a plot point." I have multiple friends or acquaintances who have been sexually assaulted, and the notion of exploiting something like their trauma for a plot point is reprehensible to me.
> 
> That being said, at this point in the story, it is essentially open warfare between Cipher and the Cabal, and it is a plain and simple fact that rape is a war tactic employed, sometimes often, by the most barbaric of factions or soldiers. It's about dehumanizing the enemy, about power, and about humiliation. The Star Cabal has been established as having zero remorse for the destruction it causes, and zero scruples for the methods they employ to obtain their goals. The Star Cabal hired the mercenaries to do a job - to break Cipher - and they will do whatever is necessary to complete it, regardless if it is personally abhorrent to either the author or the reader. It is easy to imagine that the Cabal would give the mercenaries the understanding that there was no line to be considered as "uncrossable." The sorts of freelancer mercenaries the Star Cabal is likely to employ aren't going to hold to a moral code, either, thus there is no rational reason to think that the Cabal/mercenaries would _not_ recourse to such an act. The only thing that saves Cipher is, rather ironically, the mercenaries' own anti-alien prejudice - neither morality nor compassion plays any part in it.


	29. Pain and Able

Of all her moments of resurfacing to consciousness, this one was the worst. No longer having to maintain the façade, her mind dropped the feeble remains of its final ring of defenses, laying her bare to all the severity of pain she had kept at bay for long hours.

 

Paha felt tender and raw all over, that not a part of her had been left uninjured, and she began a desultory personal inventory by hesitantly probing each tooth with her swollen tongue. Loosened, certainly, but more or less intact. There was a convulsive twitch in her hands, and the aching ineptness of their response suggested the more than one finger was broken, others dislocated, and perhaps her shoulder, too – the same one that had been similarly leveraged out of place by the wampa. It would take some time and medical attention before she could fire her sniper rifle again – not that she expected the mercenaries had troubled themselves to return it to her.

 

Her muscles trembled with exhaustion and pain and spent adrenaline, and the space between her legs fairly screamed at the mere touch of her clothing. The tattered uniform she wore was drenched in blood and sweat, and more besides, and just visible through the window made by its rent folds was a lurid purple map of abrasions and agony the size of a small dinner plate creeping across her ribs. Another bruise on her temple bore the rugged imprint of the texture of a rifle butt seeping faintly through her skin in dark red blood. Like a far off cry, she could hear a pitiful whimper that her brain obtusely began to understand came from her own throat, and she cracked open puffy eyelids to slowly bring into focus Vector hovering above her, her head cushioned in his lap and his distraught face streaked with strain and tears.

 

“Move slowly,” he cautioned in a rasping voice. “Or better yet, don’t move at all. We’ve called Doctor Lokin. He will be here soon. They – they kept all our supplies and weapons. We couldn’t heal you. We’re sorry,” he choked over the words, “we couldn’t heal you. We couldn’t do anything.”

 

“S’okay,” Paha whispered over cracked lips. “You only did as I asked.”

 

As she spoke she felt the floor rock beneath her, tipping her dizzy head, and, with an urgency that overwhelmed the sheer bodily agony, she rolled herself aside and was convulsively sick, coughing out bile and blood clots with uncontrollable sobs as the spasms racked her drained and debilitated frame. Vector reached for her, and cradled her gently on his lap again, yearning to clutch her closely and heal her through the sheer force of his will, yet fearing to exacerbate her injuries by the frantic motion of an incautious touch.

 

“Soon,” he repeated softly, using the cuff of his sleeve to wipe her mouth. “He'll be here soon. You should be proud. You did your job.” _Too well_ , he thought, but did not say.

 

Her raw and ravaged nerves were harshly alive to the slightest of pressures, and as she felt the faintest pinpoint of wet warmth alight briefly on her face, she peered up and spied another tear trickling down the worn lines of Vector's face, sliding out of the purple hollow around the black pool of his eye. Disregarding her own pain, she raised a mangled hand to his cheek, brushing away the droplet with one swollen knuckle and the gentlest of touches. This tender gesture, giving him comfort when he most felt it incumbent upon him to be the one instead to offer it, overcame him, breaking his composure and his heart in the same frail moment, and his head fell as he wept openly over her, burying his face in the palm of his trembling hand.

 

"Oh, our beloved," he gasped, hoarse and low, in a voice so broken that she nearly couldn't understand it. His next words were unintelligible, muffled in the mask of his hand, but to her ear it sounded something like, "Oh, our bride!"

 

"S'okay," she said again over cracked lips. "No more pain, no more... exhaustion," she added. To Vector, it sounded like a plea. Or a prelude to a death, and he yanked his hand from his eyes to peer with terror into her aura, ragged and frail, yet trembling with comforting signs of life. He caught her meaning then. Watcher X's serum had given her the strength to endure this experience; but he recalled, too, what she said of Watcher X's reaction to her decision: Interesting. Dangerous.

 

Dangerous, indeed. Coughing to clear the sorrow from his throat, he answered harshly, "If Watcher X were here now, we would wring his neck and rejoice in it."

 

She replied with an indistinct noise that might have been an agreement or might have been a question poised to the savagery of his instincts. More to relieve his own feelings than to soothe hers he stated, “Were it not for Watcher X's serum, you might have given in sooner. You might have been spared... this."

 

"Only a little," Cipher corrected, her voice rasping in her chafed throat. Hunter's thugs took pleasure in causing pain and in seeing another's agony, and her cries, acknowledging their ascendancy over her, had not prompted them to abate their viciousness with mercy. Giving up her information sooner would have made a meager difference – but a difference it would have been.

 

"You might think it minor, but didn't you once tell us that the most minute details were of the greatest importance?" he chided her, trying to rouse her intelligence from its stupefaction, hoping to give her something to serve as a focus for her distracted wits. There was a dullness glazing over her eyes, and the razor sharp edges of pain that scraped her aura were smoothing over in the face of the unconsciousness that was winding itself about her again. The reflexive tensing of her muscles, chilled from shock and the cold floor plates, was growing worse, convulsing her frame in violent shivers.

 

"Paha," he called urgently. Her eyelids fluttered as her sight refocused.

 

"Vector," she mumbled, followed faintly by, "Lokin?"

 

"Soon," Vector promised again, fervently hoping he wasn't lying about it. "Soon."

 

He sat with his arms around her, humming to her soothingly the songs of healing of the Killiks, giving her his warmth and wishing he could pour his own energy into her to heal all the fractures he could see in her body and aura. She wavered in a half-dream state, equally unable to pull herself together or to let herself fade into senselessness again, and he made another wordless prayer for Lokin's arrival. As if on cue, the tell-tale whine of an approaching small engine caught his ear, and he blessed the stars above, thinking no other sound at this instant could be such a welcome, sacred hymn.

 

Ensign Temple leaped from the driver's seat and promptly drew both of her guns, training them on their surroundings while she quickly scanned for danger, and Doctor Lokin swung his leg off the speeder and seized a satchel that had been hooked on the speeder saddle. Confident that there was no immediate danger, Temple, guns still at the ready, backed deliberately towards the open bay door of the garage in Doctor Lokin's wake as he hurried, bag in hand, to the figures huddled together on the floor.

 

Seeing Cipher, he said something under his breath and dropped to his knees, simultaneously yanking open the bag and demanding, "What happened?"

 

Vector's call had been short on details: a sharp, insistent demand for his immediate assistance and skills, in tones that brooked neither argument nor delay, and in response to Lokin's single question of "What do you need me to bring?" Vector's answer had been brief and to the point: "Everything."

 

It was not, luckily, quite so bad as all that, but Lokin still made an inhaling noise like a hiss as he cut her tattered uniform jacket further open and saw the patches of lurid bruises arrayed over her torso.

 

"Torture," Vector answered the doctor's question, his voice flat and tense.

 

"Interrogation," Cipher corrected weakly.

 

"They made a mess of you, sure enough," Lokin appraised, adopting a bolstering tone as he broke open a second kolto pack. "But you're going to be fine."

 

"Please tell _him_ that," Cipher whispered, gesturing to Vector with a brave effort to produce more than her ensuing feeble half-smile. Obligingly, Lokin raised his eyes to Vector.

 

"We heard," Vector forestalled his words.

 

"I know. She's stable, but I still need to get her back to the ship to finish the job," Lokin said. He glanced to where Temple stood on guard at the bay door near the speeder. "Transportation is an issue, however."

 

"Not quite, sir," called Temple. She pointed across the rubble-strewn park. "There's another speeder there. I'll get it." She took off at a sprint, eyes forever moving, seeking hidden dangers as Cipher had taught her. It took a few minutes, and a little bit of Force-based telekinesis to free the speeder from the debris, but she shortly pulled up before them again on the battered bike, the engine sputtering with an unhealthy cough.

 

Vector would not transfer his burden to any other, and Lokin knew better than to ask him to. Cipher lay quiet in his arms as he settled them on the speeder. Doctor Lokin's ministering along with Watcher X's endurance contrived jointly to dull the pain considerably, and while she certainly could not say she felt healthy, she was at least sufficiently functional to stay upright mostly under her own power. She brushed her swollen lips lightly against his tensed jawline, then lowered her head to rest on his shoulder for the duration of the ride.

 

\- - - -

 

"Sedated and on the mend," Lokin replied to Vector's questioning look when he emerged from the medical bay. "Resting comfortably, in fact. I assure you, she'll be fine. But how are you, Master Vector?"

 

As he had transferred Paha to the medical table, Vector had filled Lokin in on the bitter, bald facts of the incident, but that was all. In truth, there wasn't much to tell. Vector's own physical well-being had been quite a secondary or even tertiary concern, and he had set it aside as an irrelevancy to be dealt with later. He still had not given it much thought, in spite of being left to his own devices after Lokin disappeared into the medical bay to complete his work. Temple had approached him with caution and a saline packet, and he made her no answer except to hold out his hand to receive the intravenous line Lokin had taught her to insert.

 

“For dehydration,” she mumbled, completing the job quickly. Vector made a faint nod of his head in acknowledgment, barely glancing in her direction. “Should I remove those...?” Temple inquired, gesturing vaguely to the soiled pile of Paha's clothing that he half-held in his free hand. Lokin had cut most of them loose already, and Paha had insisted on at least a handful of private seconds to shuffle off the remainder before donning a medical robe, regardless of the agonized swelling that made her hands clumsy and feeble. Vector had promptly snatched the filthy rags out of Lokin's way, and seemed to have forgotten that he still held them, their shreds cascading out of his detached grasp and onto the floor beside where he sat on the lounge couch.

 

“No,” he answered, his voice remote and unemotional. The tattered garments were disgusting; he could smell on them the stink of all the things that Paha had found she could not control during the long hours of her trial – her sweat and tears, her blood and vomit, her urine and defecation. Worst of all, her fear.

 

He quietly slipped his grimy jacket from his shoulders, cutting the sleeve to keep it from catching the saline drip line, and laid it flat across his knees, then, with meticulous care, took up every bit of her former uniform and bundled them within the jacket he had no wish to wear again, concealing the offensiveness from sight and smell. Vector handed the bundle to Toovee, instructing him to place it with his things in the cargo hold. He would dispose of them himself later. He did not intend to move from his sentry post outside the medical bay until Doctor Lokin or Paha herself emerged.

 

Doctor Lokin was now before him, still awaiting an answer to his professionally solicitous question.

 

"We are..." Vector paused, listening to the voices within his breast each screaming for attention, for revenge, for healing, for anger, for calm, for shame, and the struggle was painful. His gaze focused in the distance, through the walls of the ship that separated him from where Paha lay, and after another few moments of silence, he said, quietly, grimly, bitterly, at last, "We don't think there can be many cases beneath these stars where a man has stood by and done _nothing_ while he watched his wife beaten half to death."

 

Lokin had no ready answer. Across the room, Temple made wide-eyed contact with the Doctor's gaze, and Lokin cleared his throat before finally replying, "According to her request, from the sound of it. Which may very well have saved both your lives."

 

Vector's only response was a nebulous and non-committal noise. His ears, attuned to sounds outside from the normal range, detected a faint rustling from the medical bay, where all his attention and focus was directed. He abruptly jerked the saline line from his hand and looked suddenly at Lokin, saying first, "Thank you, Doctor Lokin," and second, "excuse us."

 

Temple came to stand beside Lokin as Vector disappeared into the medical bay.

 

"Wife?" she mouthed, still stunned.

 

"I am as surprised as you are. I knew nothing about it," Lokin answered, prompting Temple's eyebrows to jump in astonishment. Lokin had always seemed to her to take a particular delight in ferreting out every detail of every event or circumstance, no matter how insignificant or mundane, that happened on board this ship. While the relationship between Cipher and Vector wasn't a secret among the crew, although attention was never drawn to it, for even Lokin not to have known this latest development - well, it was a hell of a revelation, to say the least.

 

Vector approached the medical bed slowly. Paha was sitting up, and clad only in a flimsy, cotton-like medical wrap, boat-necked and baggy, tied closed at the waist with two short and serviceable ribbons of flat woven cord. It ended at her knee, her naked legs and feet dangling over the edge of the medical table, and her arms bare between the hem of the short sleeves and the bracing bandages that swaddled her hands. The robe hung on her limply, like an old sack, so unlike her usual trim appearance. She looked drawn and gray, but nonetheless improved.

 

“It really wasn't _half_ to death,” she said, trying to be facetious. “More like a quarter. Not more than a third, surely.”

 

Her feeble attempt at humor fell flat, and she shut her mouth quickly. Silence was a more comfortable alternative than misplaced wisecracks.

 

"Lokin informed us you were sedated, and resting," Vector murmured.

 

"Sedatives...don't really work on me much anymore," she replied, just as softly. "And I need to contact Keeper.”

 

"Keeper can wait. Or we can take care of it," Vector said, folding his arms, and her attention was caught by the strain in his voice. Her memory was indistinct regarding just about everything after her frantic, wordless prayer that Vector be spared the sight and sound of the mercenary who had been so close to violating her, but she had hazy recollections of lying on a cold floor with Vector's face over hers, twisted with agonized misery.

 

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, sorrowfully and sincerely. "To witness that..."

 

Vector made an impatient noise, a sort of a scoff of disbelief. “To witness!” he repeated incredulously. There was a strident note of outrage in his tone, although he had not raised his voice. She looked at him a moment with blurry eyes. Her wounds had been healed in that she was no longer actively bleeding, on the surface or internally; her ribs and the bones in her hands had been set and would be well-knit in the matter of a few days, but it would be much longer before her bruised and swollen flesh resumed its normal color and condition.

 

"You're angry," she said quietly.

 

"We're not angry," he answered, his tone flat and impassive.

 

"Vector," she pointed out, "I can practically hear you grinding your teeth."

 

He was silent a few moments longer. "We _are_ angry," he said, the admission springing from him in spite of himself. There was the sound of his sharp intake of breath, and Paha waited.

 

"We feel many things," he said finally. "Anger is one of them."

 

"Towards me?" she asked.

 

"No!" he exclaimed vehemently, then, a few seconds later, much less harshly, "Yes... We don't know."

 

She said nothing for a few moments, letting him have as long as he wanted to work it out for himself without her questions or her prompts.

 

"Do you know how long it was?" he asked eventually. "Thirty-six hours. That's how long you endured it. That's how long we watched you endure it. That's how long _you_ _made_ _us_ watch you endure it."

 

He wanted to be calm, to be collected, to be the stable and steady rock he sensed she needed or wanted, but he could feel the roiling tide of his emotions churning within him again, tearing his bitter words from his mouth and he closed his eyes briefly.

 

When he opened them again, his eyes, below drawn brows, glittered darkly with inexpressible anguish, and he demanded, "Why didn't you give in sooner? We know you are brave; we need no demonstration. What were you trying to prove?"

 

The question somewhat surprised her, so she made no answer at first, but regarded him mutely, weighing his question and measuring her response. She started to put her head to one side as she considered, but as she did so, she felt the shift in pressure in her head and quickly straightened it again.

 

“I wasn't trying to prove anything,” she answered in a low voice, dropping her gaze from the sight of his heartbroken face for a moment. She raised her head again almost immediately, and although she was turned towards him, he suspected her vision was not focused directly on him, but on some point on the wall over his shoulder, staring back into that hellish abyss in her memory. With guilt, he realized that his question had shamed her, and he wished he could call it back, or to tell her the answer wasn't important. But she had already accepted his challenge to answer it.

 

“At Intelligence,” she continued in the same hushed tone, “as agents, we all went through training to prepare us for interrogations. They train us, and then send us off thinking that we're ready to face it if we have to. But it isn't true. There's no way to be ready for this. Nothing can prepare you for something like this. For how much the pain and the humiliation takes away from you... All sense of your pride. Of your self-respect. Of your mind, your memory. Of your ability to trust that you are capable of anything. Even all sense of yourself. All of it is ripped away and... and you feel like you'll never have it back again. Ever.”

 

There was a subtle shift in her eyes, and Vector saw that the faraway look in them had faded, although the haunted look had not, and she was seeing him again. “I couldn't tell,” she said simply. “I couldn't tell if it had been enough. I couldn't tell if I had had enough. If they would be satisfied, or if they would believe me. I couldn't give in sooner because my frame of reference was gone and I had no idea when I had lost it.” Her voice dropped lower, barely above a husky whisper. “I know it was supposed to be fake. But when I broke, it felt... real.”

 

He reached for her then, abruptly, his hands flying towards her and it was only at the last instant that he caught himself in concern for her injuries and he froze, his arms outstretched. She didn't see; she had closed her eyes, a distressed look contorting her features, but she knew he was there, standing close by, and she leaned her head against the comforting warmth of his body, trusting that she would make contact without needing her vision to confirm it. With slow tenderness, he lowered his arms around her.

 

“Don't apologize,” he answered. “Don't ever apologize; nothing in this is your fault. It is we who are sorry; we didn't mean to sound like we were blaming you. We were... upset. We were afraid... afraid we had lost you. Or might have.”

 

“But you couldn't have. I couldn't have died, no matter what they did,” she said, her voice muffled in his stained shirt. Without raising her head, she could sense his blank confusion. “Because a Mystic's vision is never wrong. Hunter has not yet told me to my face that everything he built is my responsibility now. Until that happens, I can't die.”

 

“Hm,” Vector's noncommittal reply rumbled in his chest below her ear. “We didn't realize you had taken the Voss ways so to heart."

 

“Neither did I,” she answered, carefully lifting her aching head. “But it gave me something to cling to. I didn't have much left, at the end. Just that thought... and you. And I had to make sure they didn't find that out. I had to make sure there was...” her voice faltered, “ _something_ they couldn't touch.”

 

“You succeeded,” Vector said softly, his throat close with a knot of emotion. Looking down, he could see the detail of every fine hair on her forearms rising up as the skin beneath puckered with goosebumps; he could see even the vibrations that made them dance as she shivered despite her muscles tensing hard to quell her shaking. Wordlessly, Vector bent to one of the cabinets, drawing out a thermal blanket that he draped around her shoulders.

 

“You need rest,” Vector asserted. Medical science had done what it could. The remainder of Paha's healing was up to sleep and time.

 

"I need a shower first," she said wearily, with an attempt at a smile that ended up looking ghoulish on her wan face. "I look like a gundark. And I smell worse."

 

He helped her to her feet, her bare toes curling in protest at the cold floor, and with clumsy fingertips she pulled the blanket about her in a tight cocoon as he opened the med bay door. She saw Lokin not far off, and, hovering behind his shoulder, Temple's anxious face. With a nod of gratitude and a whispered thanks sent their direction, she shuffled gingerly down the corridor under Vector's supporting arm. She was surprised when even after he opened the lavatory door for her he showed no sign of leaving.

 

“And how,” he asked in response to her fatigued, quizzical look, “do you expect to manage with your hands in such a condition?”

 

She looked down at her bandaged hands, the fingers splinted and spread stiffly, and without a word she gave him a hollow nod, gesturing him to lead her in. He turned on the taps first, letting the room warm with the comfort of the soft steam. The lavatory was not designed for multiple occupancy, and in the cramped space she held very still as he lifted the blanket from her shoulders and untied the medical wrap with delicate fingers. The fabric fell to the floor, and she had an automatic impulse to hide herself, hunching her shoulders and curling her arms against her breasts protectively, ashamed to behave so in front of him, and yet still more ashamed for him to see what she could not hide.

 

He surveyed her slowly, noting her embarrassment as much in her stance as in her aura, but carefully not drawing attention to it as he took a meticulous survey of the purple bruises that would require some several days to fade. His fingertips ghosted over her skin, barely touching, as he memorized the marks as thoroughly as he had tallied the assaults that had caused them.

 

As his sight fell on the junction of her legs, his breath hissed in his throat sharply as he drew it in, and his hand, trembling, froze over the bruises which bore the unmistakable stripes of a boot tread delineated in scraped, abraded lines that still sluggishly oozed the occasional drop of blood from beneath thin, chafed scabs.

 

“Doctor Lokin didn't dress these?” he asked, shocked.

 

“No,” she replied weakly. “I didn't tell him.”

 

Vector made a slight shake of his head in bewilderment. “But why?”

 

“Because –” Paha began primly, but her voice broke almost immediately. “Because I wanted to feel like – I still had some control over – over what man had permission... to touch – me –”

 

Vector swallowed hard, trying to overcome the heavy weight that clogged his throat, and pulled his hand back as he straightened. With a fresh stab of guilt, it dawned on him that he had not asked that permission, either, not really; he had merely stood upon the assumption that since she had granted it before, she would not object to his taking advantage of it now, demanding, rather than asking, the mute acquiescence she had given. His very desire to care for her put her in his control, his need to help overriding whatever need she might have to feel in charge of herself and her situation. 

 

"Would you like us to go?" 

 

"No," she rasped out immediately. She said nothing else, and she held her breath to keep from choking on the sob that threatened to crack her chest in two. Between the pain and anguish that flowed from her aura like blood, Vector looked for the sincerity of her answer, and found it. She would let him stay. She wanted him to stay.

 

“We'll get additional kolto from Doctor Lokin,” he offered softly.

 

“Thank you,” she said in a whisper barely audible. Her head bobbed in a meager gesture of acknowledgment, although there was no missing the surge of gratitude that swept through her brittle, muddled aura, and he looked at her with eyes that shone with pride and affection as much as they had shone with anger and grief just a few minutes before. He put the anger away from him, to be the topic of a future meditation when he could address it properly, wanting no part of it with him now, as he faced her. Her – this stunning, valiant, beautiful creature, as strong as she was vulnerable, that stood before him trying to mask her humiliation when she had been nothing but magnificent.

 

His skin revolted suddenly at the touch of the clothing that was a reminder of her ordeal, and he yanked his stained shirt impatiently over his head and threw it into the corner, followed promptly by his pants and underclothes. The sight of his nakedness was a strange comfort to Paha, and she surprised him a little by stepping to him quickly, burying her face in his chest to inhale his familiar scent, a little pungent with old sweat, and almost cowered against him. Her skin was chilly to his touch, despite the heat of the steam, and he opened the narrow door to the shower stall beside them with a quiet command to enter. He followed.

 

The tiny shower stall offered them barely enough room to stand side-by-side, and Paha welcomed his close proximity, finding it a consolation that needed no words. The soft stinging sensation of the falling water salved the ache of Paha's overwrought muscles, slowly loosening the stiffness from her numbed limbs, and she propped herself up by leaning her forearms against the wall as Vector took up a sponge she nodded was her own, and with infinite tenderness he slowly worked its lather gently over her battered body. She closed her eyes to focus on the texture of the sponge and the slick foam of the soap moving over her skin under Vector's sensitive motions, and she inhaled as the scent of him beside her, clarifying under the clean water, reminded her of the relaxing aroma of her depleted jessivite.

 

He had been intent on her physical body, not her aura, so he misinterpreted her sigh as an involuntary response to discomfort, that he had pained her without realizing, and he murmured an apology. She waved it off, indicating she hadn't been hurt, but he nonetheless redoubled his attention and care as he came to the untreated contusions that striped the delicate tissues between her thighs. The shaking in her limbs caught her again; Vector knew it had nothing to do with her being cold, and, glancing into her face, he saw she had trapped her trembling lower lip between her teeth, biting back a sob.

 

He set the sponge aside, and, in a gentle gesture of devotion and compassion, he wreathed his arms around her, guiding her head to rest on his shoulder with the soft pressure of one benevolent hand in her drenched hair. As the hot water washed over them, it was only because of her aura that he could tell whether the droplets on her face were water or tears.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) The fallout from the interrogation is going to take up part or all of two chapters. This is the first.
> 
> 2) Once time, in college, I was riding across campus on my bicycle, standing on the pedals with my weight forward to coast along slowly as I approached a bike rack, relying on my last bit of momentum to carry me forward. My front tire hit the edge of an uneven separation in the cement sidewalk and it was enough to cause the bike to stop short. I was thrown forward, and I hit the center post between the handlebars with my girly bits, with all of my body weight behind it. I pretty much dropped like a rock; but thanked my double X chromosomes that I wasn't a boy, as I figured that would have been way way worse. Still, to this day, it is up there on the most painful things I've ever felt.
> 
> 3) When I originally drafted this chapter, I didn't have my notes or any resources on hand, so O put in the "thirty-six hours" of interrogation as a placeholder until I could check and update it later with the correct value, which was twenty hours thirty-two minutes, but I forgot, and posted it as I had originally written it. Ah well, it stands as-is. I at least remembered that the number thirty was some part of it, anyway!


	30. Vengeance and Vulnerability

Vector was weary and heartsick, but he yet did not allow himself to close his eyes in sleep. There were still too many things on his mind, things that needed attention and thought, and solitude and quiet for him to give a full ear to the various songs within his soul.

 

He had let Paha have her fill of tears in the shower, knowing her pride would appreciate the disguise offered by the water, rinsing out her emotions and her aura as it did her body. It would take time for her to consider any of them as pristine again, however much he might tell her that not a single thing about her had been sullied by the treatment she had been forced to withstand.

 

When she had finished, he dried her with heavy, soft towels and the same gentle care as he had bathed her. Belatedly, he realized he had made no provision for dressing, so he wrapped her warmly, leaving an apologetic kiss on her cheek, and, only towel-clad, slipped briefly to the bunk room he shared with Lokin to throw on a shirt and pants. As he left the lavatory, he took care to scoop his own soiled clothing out of the corner with a quick motion of his hand, not wanting its filth to stand a reminder when noticed by Paha's keen eye.

 

The thermal blanket he had given Paha in the medical bay was effective, but designed for portability and emergencies. It was a thin, metallic material, the sort that reflected and trapped heat efficiently, but offered little tactile comfort, so Vector whisked the soft woolen flannel from his own bunk and returned promptly to the lavatory where Paha sat on the closed commode, staring at her feet, blue against the utilitarian gray paneling of the floor, and clutching a towel to her chest as if still trying to hide her bruises from some non-existent peeper.

 

He settled the blanket around her shoulders, and she raised her head, rousing herself to make an effort and pull it close around her throat. It smelled like him, and that was as much a consolation as its touch.

 

“The lounge is empty,” he told her, “You will encounter no one on the way to your quarters, unless you wish it.”

 

“I'll still need to contact Keeper,” she answered. It was the normal thing, after a mission, and the motions of routine behavior might, Vector considered, be good for her.  It was the briefest of communiques, and Cipher kept it to audio only, infusing her voice with a brusque, business-like tone and rushing through the essential information to close the channel before Keeper could get many questions in edgewise. Vector wrestled with the temptation to take over the call and let Keeper know just what _exactly_ had occurred during this scheme she had concocted and sent Cipher to handle, but he held his peace, reminding himself that he had set aside his anger for now, and there would be time to face it later.

 

With her check-in with Keeper completed, there was nothing standing between Paha and sleep but her own memories of her trauma, and those were, for the time being, overridden by her exhaustion. She didn't bother with her usual sleepwear, but crawled between the sheets attired in Vector's blanket. He sat down beside her, his arms around her, and she was so acutely grateful that he knew, without her asking, that she wanted him to stay with her that she nearly started to cry again.  She pinned her lips shut, holding herself stiffly to push the stinging tears away.

 

In time, her even breathing and the placid tint of her aura indicated she was deep in a dreamless sleep, with her fingers loosely curled around his. Vector watched her buffeted tranquility for several moments, meditating over the strange history of their surprising relationship, tasting the savory, the sweet, and the spice of every memory, before sliding his arm gently from beneath her and rising. At the door of the room, he looked back one long instant, using the pause to fully feel how much he cherished everything this room held, and then, with an abrupt turn, he left. He had work to do.

 

Vector's first task was to spend a few moments in the solitude of the cargo hold, communing with the the Oroboro Colony. Relatively speaking, Alderaan was close by Corellia and communication was easy and swift. They were already aware of the occurrence of some disaster, and were solicitous about his own security foremost, and, once satisfied on that subject, they were attentive to the information he had to relate and accommodating to the request he had to make. It was time to take advantage of the Imperial-Killik Alliance he had worked so hard to establish.

 

His second mission took him to the bridge, where he exploited his connections to Intelligence to extract a promise from the Imperial traffic control personnel to keep him apprised of the arrival or departure of any ship, whether Imperial, Republic, or unaffiliated, no matter how insignificant it appeared. In an active war zone, he was quite certain that there would be no ship movements that would go unremarked. Intelligence might have been dismantled, but the respect, or perhaps fear, its reputation commanded still bore considerable weight among many an enlisted man who only wanted to do a job, be obscure, and stay alive.

 

The third thing he did was to return to the medical bay where Lokin had already finished tidying up the detritus left behind from the emergencies of earlier that day.  Vector requested a small jar of kolto paste.

 

“Oh, just a dab will do,” Lokin replied, glancing at the bruised goose-egg on Vector's brow, the gift of a mercenary's rifle butt to the head. “You won't really need –”

 

Lokin broke off and spent a moment looking closely at Vector's face, which, Vector guessed, betrayed somewhat more than he had intended. Covering his hesitation with a gruff cough, the doctor spooned out a larger volume into an empty jar and handed it over.

 

“Head wounds can be troublesome,” Lokin continued somewhat phlegmatically. “And there's no need to be stingy with this. You can have as much as you want.”

 

With these tasks accomplished, Vector returned to the room where Paha yet slept. He wondered if he should second-guess the course he had set himself on, but as he put himself to the question, he found that he could no more retreat from what he had decided than he could reverse time. Over and over his memory chanted to him something Paha had once said – _You discovered you have things you want to protect_ – like a refrain that interwove between the melody lines of the Song of the Hunter. He had found something he wanted to protect, and he had failed to protect it. He understood that some measure of his anger was directed at himself, his guilty self that had done nothing but obey and watch, and had done almost nothing to protect.

 

But he had vowed that these volatile emotions would not pursue him into this room, this place that was their haven, and where he would bring nothing to disturb the refuge of her rest. He set the jar of kolto paste on the shelf above the bed, beside the ulikuo gemstone in its little stand, and shuffled off his clothes to slide beneath the sheets beside his wife. He took her gently in his arms, cradling her head on his shoulder, and, satisfied with his resolutions, finally permitted himself his sleep.

 

\- - - -

 

Less than twenty-four hours later his efforts bore fruit.

 

Vector crossed from the _Phantom_  to the hangar bay to where an Imperial troop supply ship had just arrived. A young crewman indicated that a single crate on board, on rush delivery from Alderaan, was directed to one Vector Hyllus, care of Imperial Agent Cipher Nine – well, their covers were long since blown anyway – Coronet City, Corellia, and transferred it to him without curiosity or question. Vector claimed the crate dolly and brought it himself back to the hangar bay of the _Phantom_. There, in solitude, he opened it.  Resting quietly within was a phalanx of Killik fingerlings, numbering perhaps a thousand, their delicate wings folded serenely as they sat side-by-side in orderly rows.

 

“Hello,” Vector greeted them soberly. He was sincerely glad to see them; he had not been near any members of the hive since the alliance summit, and he had missed them severely. “We apologize for the ignominious method of travel,” he added, “but this was the most expeditious, and time is essential now.”

 

It dawned on him that he was unnecessarily speaking aloud; it had been automatic, as he had become used to verbal words as his primary form of communication again, out here among the un-Joined races. The fingerlings returned his greeting nonetheless, and many of them fluttered up from the depths of the crate to alight on his outstretched hands. He stood silent, and very still. To a casual glance, he would have appeared to be some sort of eccentric entomologist, but a more practiced observer might have fancied that this strange scene was in fact the manifestation of a very serious and very intense conversation.

 

After a few moments, the entire body of fingerlings rose up as one, swirling about him like a throng in a wild dance, punctuated by the rhythm of the clattering of tiny mandibles. The cloud convulsed once, then split into a thousand fragments, and the Song of the Hunter was spread across the Coronet City sky on the backs of four thousand gossamer wings. Each one knew the sight, the sound, and the smell of their quarry as surely as if they had personal experience themselves.

 

Now, all Vector had to do was wait. Only one needed to succeed, and he would know it, instantly. His contact in the Imperial spaceport had indicated that there had been some few arrivals of Republic ships in the past day, but no departures of any kind had been noted. Of course, that did not mean that some small ship, well-hidden beneath the Star Cabal's technology, had not slipped past the observers, but he felt it unlikely: these Eidolon assassins, though skilled, were hired guns, not members of the Cabal. Hunter would have no compunction about cutting them loose once their job was complete and their usefulness exhausted. Vector was convinced that Hunter would not go to great lengths to protect or remove them. They were still on Corellia.

 

\- - - -

 

His patience was shortly rewarded. A thousand airborne fingerlings could cover a lot of territory, and could glean much from the faintest scent on the wind, rife though it was with the stink of battle and death. Paha had awoken a few times from her convalescent sleep, and he had been there each time, reassuring and attentive, to bring her food – carefully free of Mirialan spices, of course – or water or simply the solace of his presence. He watched her as she slept, tracing the pictures of her own biochemical processes as they mended broken bones and healed bruised tissues, and he was doing just this when a tickling in his mind alerted him. With the utmost silence, he slipped out of bed and out of the room, and went straight to engineering.

 

“Scorpio,” he asked without preamble, “what do you know about Eidolon Security?”

 

There was a pause of about a second as the droid searched her expansive memory banks. “Almost nothing,” she said. “Founded by an expert assassin, the Eidolon. Supplies security to a significant number of galactic corporate interests. Rival to the Hutt Cartels. Rumored to have the Republic itself as a client. That is all.”

 

“Would you like to learn more?” Vector inquired next. “We can ensure some level of personal experience with some of their former members, if you are interested.”

  
The droid's eyes glowed with anticipation. “Yes,” Scorpio replied evenly. “The prospect of expanding the compass of my programming is foremost of my directives.”

 

“Then come with us,” Vector said. He stopped only long enough to hand Scorpio her electrostaff while he himself picked up his Killik pike – a long and lethal halberd with a heavy triangular blade. It had been some time since he used it; the number of droids that he and Cipher encountered so often in their battles had led him to favor the electrostaff, but for this he wanted the traditional weapon. It was more fitting for his purpose.

 

Scorpio fell in behind him without question, and spoke only to inform him that she had no need of a speeder herself. Her construction was more than agile enough for an overland run, and, given their mission, it was folly to question her durability. She was above fatigue.

 

With no response other than a nod, Vector kick-started the speeder and took off, the sound of the Song of the Avenger surging through him, with the counter-melody, this time, of the memory of his own words: _Had they injured you, our vengeance would have been terrible._

 

\- - - -

 

Paha awoke feeling, finally, somewhat restored. The fog in her concussed head was certainly much thinner, and the majority of her bodily pain had subsided to some twinges and dull aches. She stretched out an arm, and was startled into full alertness by the sensation of half the bed being empty and cold to her touch. She raised her head, surprised to find herself alone.

 

Her memories of the past three days were muddled, but she had indistinct thoughts of surfacing a handful of times, and always, always Vector had been there. She dimly recollected a few mouthfuls of soup, spooned by his hand, of his removing a sweat-soaked blanket and replacing it with a fresh one, of the warmth and scent of him nearby, and now that he was not, it gave her a pang. It was uncomfortable; she wasn't used to being needy, particularly not for another person. But that was part of her old life, before she had learned to let someone – no, to let _Vector_ in, past the defenses of her standoffish ways.

 

As she sat up and looked about her, Paha's eye fell on the gemstone that symbolized their union, and the sight of it cheered her as if it were some solid piece of him left here to guard her, wherever he was. Perhaps getting something from Toovee in the ship's galley. Her gaze shifted to the little jar that stood a few inches to the right of the gem, full of a greenish unguent she recognized as kolto, more than half depleted. Violet color inched into her cheeks as a more defined memory surfaced from the haze; a memory not of thought or words but of touch, as Vector, with painstaking care, had salved her most tender wounds when she had not permitted the medical professional on board to even know the injuries had existed. 

 

It was still frightening, at times, the realization of how much he treasured her. And, in return, how much she cherished him, to the point where the sense of his physical absence was almost an additional hurt. She might have considered it dangerous, loving someone to such an extent, had she not felt how much they were the stronger for it. They were both independent people, strong-willed and vibrant, and in no danger of losing themselves in subservience to the other – not like Anora, who would give up herself to please another. They were equals and counterparts, each other's mirror and opposite, both the foil and the complement, balanced in a harmony that was all the more exquisite for being not quite perfect. They would share their parts, swapping melodies and trading harmonies as needed, and their anthem would never be the duller for it. 

 

Paha swung her legs out of bed, and they held her tolerably well, although she knew she wasn't about to win any footraces. Another day, maybe two, and she might be ready to return to the field. She only hoped that the prolonged downtime wouldn't cause her to miss the window of opportunity; hell's crowning achievement would be that her ordeal was suffered in vain! She didn't dress in her full uniform, but chose a more casual tactical jacket that she had occasionally used when concealing her Imperial connections, and finally emerged from her quarters.

 

Lokin and Temple were sitting at the dejarik table, and both looked up at the sound of her door. Cipher returned their greetings and inquiries after her health, and she thanked them for their concern and attention before asking, “Where's Vector?”

 

Temple didn't bother disguising the uncertain glance she shot at Lokin, and she spoke first.

 

“We... don't know, sir,” she admitted. “And Scorpio is gone, too.”

 

“I'm sure it's nothing to worry about,” Lokin interposed quickly, and something in his manner made Cipher suspect that he and Temple had had a long discussion about how much of their missing crewmen they were going to reveal, and how quickly. Lokin, remembering the dressing-down Cipher had given him when he had concealed information regarding Kaliyo's activities, had agreed to Temple's intention to relate everything at once, although with a slight reluctance born of a respect for Vector.  He was quite certain that whatever Vector was about, he had his reasons for concealment.  


 

“His pike is gone,” Temple added, “as is Scorpio's staff.”

 

“They didn't say anything?” Cipher inquired, puzzled.

 

“Nothing, sir,” Temple replied.

 

That seemed unusual. Scorpio was a secretive creature, naturally, but Cipher's command over her involved some very clear injunctions regarding unauthorized movements outside of the ship. Which meant that wherever she was, Vector was with her, and in control. But what would take Vector off the _Phantom_? With Lord Razer dead, they were essentially free from military control, although perhaps that was only a temporary state.

 

“A command from one of the Sith Lords? Major Nedecca?” Cipher asked.

 

“There are no records of any transmissions to the ship,” Lokin answered. “Not today, at any rate. Only a notice to Master Vector from two days ago, indicating the safe arrival of a priority shipment from Alderaan.”

 

“Even more curious,” Cipher mused, completely stumped.

 

“I'm sure there's a perfectly rational explanation,” Lokin assured. “Master Vector is not a stupid or foolhardy man, and Scorpio is the epitome of logic.”

 

“Of course,” Cipher said with a faint smile. “They'll be back soon, no doubt.” Nonetheless, she went to the bridge herself to survey the logs. Just as Lokin had said, there were no orders received from Imperial command, only a sparse list of communications – the arrival of the strange Alderaan delivery, a request dated the day before that for a record of ship departures and arrivals, and prior to that, just her own message to Keeper. Nothing here that provided any clue, only more questions.

 

She returned to the lounge and settled in with a cup of hot tea to watch Lokin and Temple's dejarik game, attempting indifference to the passage of time and forcing herself to adopt a patient attitude with regards to her missing crew. It was difficult; she felt absurdly apprehensive; it would be intolerable if Vector were somewhere, needing help while she sat here in safety and ignorance, and she had to remind herself that both Vector and Scorpio were highly skilled, and capable of taking care of themselves. Hadn't she just told them all that, just a week or so gone? Of how much she appreciated and respected their talents, even if the military were woefully ignorant? Why should she doubt it, if it were now put to the proof? But as the minutes ticked by, she found herself more and more ill at ease, and less and less capable of hiding her anxious impatience for their return – for  _his_ return, she had the grace to confess to herself.

 

All at once, there was a familiar metal grating sound of the port hatch door opening, and Paha jumped to her feet, entirely disregarding appearances and not caring who knew it. This latest adventure, certainly, had laid bare the truth of her and Vector's feelings and relationship to the crew with no room for misinterpretation. She was halfway across the lounge before Temple and Lokin had found their feet, and the sight of Vector entering the corridor, safe and sound with Scorpio close behind, simultaneously appeased her and underscored how severe had been the restlessness with which she had awaited his return.

 

“You're back,” she breathed, taking him directly in her arms, heedless of witnesses. He was a little startled, but highly gratified at her welcome, and pleased beyond measure to see her up and about; he returned the embrace with one arm, the other holding aside his Killik pike. 

 

“Where _were_ you? You left no word, and you –” Paha paused, her other senses now having had a moment to catch up with her sense of relief, and she drew back a little to survey him and the flecks of dried blood that spattered his clothes. “– And you... have been in a fight, if I don't miss my guess.”

 

“We have,” he replied gravely. “Scorpio was kind enough to assist us in our endeavors. We sought a... conversation, if you will, with certain individuals who have some association with Eidolon Security. And with the Star Cabal.”

 

“Oh,” Paha replied faintly, momentarily struck dumb. The import of his words sank in further, and with a hazy notion that some amount of her color had left her face, she repeated her stunned monosyllable. “ _Oh_...”

 

“We expressed our position on the matter,” he explained obliquely, his expression neutrally composed. “They had a different opinion. We gave them to understand that the issue was not open for negotiation. It took some convincing, but eventually they understood. That is all.”

 

“Oh,” Paha said for the third time. After a moment, she added, “Thank you. And Scorpio, thank you, too.”

 

She stepped back to allow them space to fully enter the corridor, where the brighter light let her view them more completely. They appeared no worse for wear; there were a few scratches on Scorpio's shiny exterior that would be easily buffed out as the spray of blood droplets were wiped away, and the blood on Vector's clothing appeared, from all indications, to be none of his own. His hair was slightly mussed, and she could catch the faint odor of the sweat of his exertions.

 

“If you will excuse me, I will return to the engine room,” Scorpio stated, not entering the lounge. “I intend to analyze this experience promptly.”

 

Vector inclined his head to the droid, thanking her again for her assistance, and it struck Paha at how it was, again, Vector, the outcast and the diplomat, who was the one to ferret out the common ground that provided this crew with its cohesion. She, Paha, might be the crew's commander, but Vector was truly the lynch pin that held them together.

 

“Well done, Master Vector,” Doctor Lokin bobbed his head in a congratulatory nod, and with a glance, he steered Temple back to the dejarik table in the lounge, to allow Cipher and Vector a moment.

 

“We're glad to see you up,” Vector said softly, reaching out to her again and brushing her hair back from her cheek.

 

“I was worried,” she confessed, “when I woke up and you weren't there.”

 

“We're sorry. We thought we'd be back sooner.”

 

“I wasn't accusing,” she hastened to add, apologetic, “I just... missed you.”

 

“We know,” he answered, bending down to brush his lips over hers in the gentlest of kisses, careful to make no motion that even hinted at wanting or demanding more. “We need to clean up... but we have one last thing we would like to take care of. We are not certain... but you may wish to accompany us.”

 

He led her down the hall to the cargo bay where, on a crate, a large mess of filthy rags lay wadded up in a tight bundle. Paha swallowed, and Vector watched the jittery tension of nerves jostle her aura, raising the soft curves of relief and affection into angles and garish colors. She recognized the bundle for what it was.

 

“We were going to dispose of it ourselves,” he murmured. “But we thought you might wish to be there – that it might help. We're sorry if we guessed wrong.”

 

Paha spent a moment with her vermilion eyes locked in a staring contest with the parcel, feeling her stomach roll over in revulsion. “It's okay,” she said finally, a slight hitch in her voice. “You aren't wrong. Let's get rid of it – together. And that will be the end.”

 

It wouldn't be, and they both knew it. Such an experience would be a part of their existence, separately and together, for the remainder of their lives, and it remained to be seen how heavy a shadow it would cast. Something like this could tear a person apart, let alone what it could do to a union, and Vector could admit at least to himself that the prospect worried him no small amount. But Paha followed him outside without guessing his anxiety, through the Imperial spaceport and to a little secluded spot near one of the shattered buildings of Coronet City not far away. She wanted to ask him more about the Eidolon mercenaries, about what had happened and what he had done, but his manner of relating it didn't seem designed to encourage questions.

 

Vector set the bundle down, nudging apart the crusty rags with his foot – shredded scraps of her uniform and his clothing, pants, shirt, jacket, underclothes, all of it soiled and torn almost beyond recognition. He stepped back for her to do the honors; she stooped to light a flimsy scrap that flopped limply over the rocks in a desultory breeze. It caught obligingly, and in seconds, the entire mess was wrapped in a purging dance of flame. Vector watched the tongues of fire reflect in the scarlet depths of Paha's eyes, and he put an arm around her. Together, they stood still and silent as the fire turned it all to ash.

 

\- - - -

 

Back on the _Phantom_ , Vector headed for the lavatory to shower and Cipher went to the engine room.

 

“Thank you,” she said to Scorpio as she entered, “for helping Vector.”

 

“There was logic in his proposal,” Scorpio replied, as coldly impassive as ever. “I had never had the opportunity to observe the capacities of Eidolon Security.”

 

“And what is your assessment?” Cipher asked. The easiest way to get Scorpio to open up, she had discovered, was to couch it in terms of discovery – preferably, combative discovery.

 

“I was not as impressed as I had hoped to be,” Scorpio answered, causing Cipher to make a small snort of amusement.

 

“That easy?”

 

“I expected better tactics,” Scorpio stated. “They are strong against the helpless or weak, but unimaginative in strategy and incapable of meeting an equal or superior force. They are inclined towards underestimating their enemy, so they cannot even properly assess an equal or superior force. Their fighting techniques are predictable. Conversely, this experience enabled me to ascertain that Vector Hyllus remains worthy of more study.  He is a better warrior than I had initially credited.”

 

“Perhaps you had better start from the beginning,” Cipher coaxed, folding her arms, “and give me a full overview of the tactical situation.”

 

“You give me some hope for the improvement of your judgment,” Scorpio said. It was probably as near a thing to a compliment as she was ever likely to make, and Cipher took it as such. 

 

“Vector Hyllus had discovered the location of the ex-Eidolon assassins –”

 

“How?” Cipher asked.

 

“I don't know,” Scorpio replied. “I did not consider it important. What is relevant is that he _did_. The location was the remains of a private structure between Axial Park and the Government District. The mercenaries were collected outside, so had not bothered with a sentry. We approached. Vector Hyllus addressed them –”

 

“What did he say?”

 

“Only a greeting. Hello. I fail to understand the relevance.”

 

“Humor me. I just want as full a description as possible.”

 

“If you allow me to interface with the ship's computer,” Scorpio offered, “I can show you, as it was recorded through my eyes.”

 

Cipher immediately pulled a length of cable from the drawer beside the console, holding one end out to the droid while plugging in the other. For some reason, it had become incredibly important to her to know what Vector had faced, and what he had done, to – she paused, considering, and recalled his anguished words in the medical bay from days earlier.  _How long_ , he had said,  _she had made him endure it_ . Watching her being tortured, and being forestalled, by her own commands, to lift a finger to prevent or end it. He had sworn to protect her, and she had almost immediately forbidden it. What must he have felt? How could he have coped? She shuddered, feeling cold. Oh yes, if she had made him know what she had endured, then she owed it to him to know what he had done, not to protect her, when all chance of protection had passed, but to avenge her. Paha turned to look at the console display, picking up right where Scorpio's verbal description had left off.

 

“I recognize you,” said the thug closest to Vector. “You're the freak that was with that blue-skinned bitch we taught a lesson to a few days back. Hey guys! Look who's come to visit!”

 

Scorpio was right; these thugs  _were_ stupid, or at least this one was. As the mercenary spoke to his cronies, he turned away from Vector, the better to let his voice carry, clearly considering the situation as no threat. Vector's reaction was immediate, faster than Paha had ever seen him move, so abrupt that she actually jumped as she watched Vector lash out in one single, whirlwind strike, with the triangular blade of his halberd sinking deeply into the side of the mercenary's head. Vector wrenched it free, and Scorpio looked at the body after it had fallen, assessing its altered threat risk. The mercenary, gibbering and drooling, his limbs convulsing, clearly wasn't dead, but as clearly would be shortly. A man just didn't get over having that much of his brain cleaved open.

 

Scorpio's glance to the body was quick, but that time had been enough to galvanize the remaining quintet of goons into action, and the battle was joined in earnest on both sides. The remaining assassins were either not as stupid as the first, or were more skilled, or just had a more desperate appreciation for their lives, for they fought fiercely, and it was clear from the cold rage that twisted Vector's face that there would be no expectation of mercy. Scorpio caught a glimpse as he plunged the Killik pike into a mercenary's stomach with a force that drove the blade straight out the other side, then ripped it back, dragging with it an alarming effusion of blood and vital organs. 

 

The curious thing, Cipher noted, was that Vector seemed to say something, once or twice, and whatever it was, he said it surprisingly calmly. She had Scorpio rewind the recording to try to catch it again. It sounded something like, “No, this is our fight. We do not want you hurt.”

 

The words bewildered her. Clearly, Scorpio was already part of the fight, and had battered one of the assailants into a pulp at her feet. Vector couldn't have meant her. Then who?

 

She had her answer a moment later. The recording had held a sort of rhythmic hum, or buzzing noise, that she had taken as some sound artifact – a bit of interference, a nearby shorted power generator, maybe even a running speeder car somewhere behind the droid. It was none of these things, she discovered, as Scorpio's vision glimpsed the bulk of a large and armored man with a scarred face.

 

Paha recognized the scar-faced thug, the one who had done the asking of all the questions, and tensed as he brought an overpowered rifle to bear on Vector, who was locked in combat with another – with a sickening lurch, Paha could tell from his raised voice that this was the owner of the hand that had pulled at her clothing, and the boot that had so viciously kicked her. Scorpio, with the bulk of her attention focused on her own foe, could offer no help. Even the knowledge that Vector was, at this moment, safe and sound on the  _Phantom_ did not fully mollify her sudden terror: at the time Scorpio witnessed this, Vector had been about to be shot.

 

The buzzing noise grew loud, and from beyond Scorpio's peripheral vision descended a cloud of particulates, all agitation and anger, and with a gasp, Cipher realized she recognized what they were. She had seen them before, earlier on Alderaan, when they had helped her and Vector sabotage a generator. Killik fingerlings. Young Killiks, not beyond their second or third instar stages, old enough to bear wings and, judging from the shouts of the scar-faced man, flailing wildly, stingers.

 

_This is our fight_ , Vector had said, trying to warn them back, to keep them safe, to guard them as Dawn Herald. To protect them, she realized, as he had been unable to protect her. He had meant that it was  _his_ fight – but what had happened was perfectly consistent with the collectivism of the hive. The fingerlings would have agreed,  _this is our fight_ , and had sailed in beside him, seeing no difference between his personal feeling and their own. She could almost hear the declaration in the hum of their wings –  _we fight for you; we fight for the nest_ . For once, Vector had a full chorus to back him in the Song of the Hunter. Paha choked on a knot of feeling in her chest, and she discovered she had been holding her breath to keep the sting of tears at bay.

 

Scorpio's enemy had fallen, and the scar-faced man, unable to fight a thousand tiny foes, crumbled. Vector withdrew the blade of his halberd from where it had sunk deep through the shoulder of Paha's assaulter into his chest, hewing his arm half from his body. The man fell to his knees, painfully gasping out indistinct noises that might have been prayers for mercy, or might equally have been curses, and Vector allowed him a moment to face his agony and his end in equal terror, and then finished the job with one calm, terse motion.

 

Paha, through Scorpio's eyes, surveyed the scene of bloody carnage. She and Vector generally worked with a sort of efficient economy, eschewing wastefulness of energy, supplies, life, or effort. They did what was necessary to defeat an enemy, and moved on to the next. What was left behind was often, all things considered, fairly tidy. 

 

There was no sign of this restraint here. The mercenaries lay still, nearly unrecognizable in death as human, as their living natures had proven them similarly inhuman. Their scar-faced leader had suffered an agonizing end; his face was contorted and purple, swollen down past his throat from hundreds of envenomed Killik stings, closing his airways until suffocation had finally severed him from life. 

 

“Our work is finished,” Vector had said, turning to Scorpio and breathing hard. “Thank you.”

 

Scorpio's recording ended. Cipher slowly raised her head from the console, and was startled when her peripheral vision caught the presence of a person in the door, and she looked over quickly, her own breath rapid and shallow in her chest.

 

“We would have told you,” Vector offered gravely. “If you asked.”

 

“I wasn't sure you wanted to talk about it,” she replied solemnly. “And... I think I needed to see it for myself. Thank you, Scorpio. For everything.”

 

She followed Vector out of the engine room, and before he could say anything more, she plucked at his sleeve, stopping him so that he turned towards her, and she slid her arms around him, pulling him close.

 

“I'm sorry,” she said sincerely. “I'm sorry I put you in that position. That I ordered you not to help me. That I forced you not to uphold the promise you freely made me.”

 

“We know,” he replied, wrapping consoling arms around her. “And we understand why it had to be that way. We don't blame you. We never will. So we refuse your apology.”

 

“Tell the fingerlings thank you, from me,” she said, with an attempt at a smile.

 

He returned the look, his smile equally haggard. “You can tell them yourself. They are outside. We will send them back to Alderaan shortly, where they will be safe. Safer than Corellia, anyway.”

 

It was a brief farewell, the young Killiks eager to return home to share their knowledge of Corellia with the rest of the nest, and even more eager to pass on their observations of the strange and solitary blue flower that was so important to the Oroboro Dawn Herald. She had changed from the last time she had been among the Killiks, at the celebration of the discovery of the Lost Colony. She was just as strange, but somehow, without being Joined, she was somewhat less solitary. It was a curious thing to contemplate, and they fluttered around her on their airy wings, sensing her appreciation for them through Vector's mediation.

 

As Vector returned from turning over the crate, marked with signs of rush delivery to Alderaan, to the logistics officers, Paha thought he looked tired. No wonder, she told herself; he had played many roles these past few days, and he needed a rest no less than she did, and she was weary, despite her long and recuperative sleep. Toovee had a hot meal awaiting them on board, after which they sank together in sleep on their bed.

 

\- - - -

 

Sometime later, Vector slowly surfaced to the drowsy shallows of sleep with the soft, spiced scent of Paha heavily filling his head, but it was not until he noticed the rough texture of a bandage, wrapped around a clumsy hand, resting against his skin that awoke fully. She lay curled against him, only just awake herself, and as she became aware she had awoken him, she met his gaze with eyes that kindled darkly. He didn't verbalize the question, but she read it in his face nonetheless and answered it.

 

"I have been feeling pretty much nothing but pain for the past four days," she murmured, her lips barely brushing the hollow of his throat as she spoke. "I – I'd like to feel something else. Normal, for starters."

 

There was a faint trembling in her hands that he could feel transferring their quivers to his skin, and he lay still, looking into her aura, luminous in the dark, and he saw there something needful, something loving, something desirous, and, most troubling, something of a nervous courage. He hoped he hid his intake of breath well; she would never want him to know that she had felt the need to call upon her broken reserves of bravery to face him. It hurt, like a stab to his heart. But this wasn't about him, and he felt keenly that being hurt by it was doing her an injustice – not when she was entrusting all of this, and all of herself, to him.

 

For a long time, he did nothing but let his hands wander gently over her, tasting her skin with his fingertips as he traced her curves lightly, detecting the conflict in her muscles that simultaneously relaxed under his touch and tensed with an edginess she had not experienced even in their first time together. She made a concerted effort to drop the old habitual defenses she had once maintained as a matter of course, and which she had never needed with Vector but which had reasserted their authority with reflexive automation, and when she at last craned her head to kiss him, her lips were warm and soft. He slid a hand beneath her neck to cradle her head, softly smoothing back her hair and inviting, without insisting, the kiss, their first real one since the trial, to deepen.

 

In spite of herself, she flinched involuntarily as he brushed the space between her thighs, barely open to him, and she despised herself for it, sensing his tension as he froze.

 

"Don't," she whispered, clinging to him with tightening fingers, not even certain, at first, what she wanted to ask of him. She disliked, thoroughly disliked, the feeling of neediness, of vulnerability; she was yet torn between the notion of being, or appearing, fragile, with the shame she imagined was an integral part of that state, and a strange idea, gradually gaining root in the fertile fields of her mind, that misplaced pride was a worse condition, and that it could be safely sacrificed to love without risking a corresponding loss of dignity. At least, it could when the other was worthy, as such a person as Vector was. He had seen her at her lowest, at her most abjectly humiliated, when all of her autonomy had been lost; with some surprise, it occurred to her that this was not the first time – the brainwashing.

 

Then, the removal of her authority had been more insidious, less overt, but the experiences were not dissimilar. This, however, had been more visceral, more physically brutal, to the extent that even her most basic bodily controls were gone. Vector had blanched neither then nor now, when, both times, she had been exposed and defenseless because some other entity had forced her to be. And what if it were her choice? As she had once learned to make the conscious decision to admit her trust in him, she now realized that she could be vulnerable before him, of her own volition, not because she had been externally compelled, and that she could admit it and permit it, without shame, without fragility, and without any affront to the dignity of either. Vector remained as he was, suspended in an uncomfortable hesitation, waiting for her to finish her plea.

 

"Don't pull away,” she begged. “Don't leave me." Her breath hitched in her throat, almost a prelude to a sob, and she pulled his petrified form to her. “If I – if it weren't for you – I don't think I would have made it through.”

 

“You would have,” he assured, caressing her.

 

“No. No, I wouldn't,” Paha confessed. “I wouldn't have been strong enough. I'm not strong enough. Unless I have you.  When it comes to you - I can't tell the difference between... wanting and needing anymore.”

 

Her voice broke, and tears overflowed her eyes, and he kissed them away with the softest touch of his lips, only then realizing that as she had opened herself emotionally, she had also done so physically, desiring and welcoming him with a simple, flaming purity that was wholly uncontaminated with the trauma of their recent upheavals. His burning fingers kindled a glow that permeated the whole of her being, and he felt a corresponding fire in the core of his being, each gleam gaining in brilliance as they glided slowly and sweetly towards mutual release.

 

She did not, as was her custom, greet hers with her head thrown back, her neck drawn and straight and her throat exposed beneath her expression of rapture, all open to Vector's view.  This time, she buckled, folding into his arms, and made a faint cry that was at once both ecstatic and anguished; she buried her face in the protective hollow of his neck and gasped his name out, again and again, in a ragged whisper. Holding her trembling figure tightly, he plunged after her, answering and joining her with body, heart, and voice alike.

 

With limbs interlaced and passions soothed, they rested together, waiting for sleep to return on the heels of surrender, and Vector indulged his typical habit of observing her. He was not so foolish as to think that she was restored to her former self – she might never be that again; how often had they discussed that people changed, even without these sorts of pressures? – but he felt a vast reassurance that this would not, after all, destroy her, or them. The future was yet theirs, and they would meet it together.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Here's the chapter where a reader can flat-out tell me, "You have Vector's character wrong," and I will say, "you've got a point." The crux of the issue is my sending Vector in full vengeance against the ex-Eidolon crew, and I can 100% understand if someone disagrees that he would do that: Vector is, at his core, a true believer in the power of the diplomatic solution. He's really not the type to murder in cold blood. (This, I would argue, isn't really murder in cold blood. He did give them a fighting chance, and, at least initially, he and Scorpio were outnumbered.)
> 
> But to explain my thoughts on this, let me back up, or, rather, skip ahead, to the end result of the final confrontation, in which the agent has a choice to kill the enemy (Dark side), offer the enemy healing (Light side), or adopt a more "wait-and-see" approach (neither DS or LS). I played through this scenario a couple of times, curious about the choices, and noted that taking the LS option earned affection with Vector, but the neutral choice nets neither gain nor loss with him. On the surface, this is entirely consistent with his character - he always approves of merciful or diplomatic solutions.
> 
> However - at this point in the story line, the romance between the agent and Vector is established - advanced, even - and the whole crew knows the Star Cabal has been a major part of the agent's life for a while. The Star Cabal has been responsible for manipulating the agent, brainwashing her, hounding her across the galaxy, blowing her cover and deliberately revealing her whereabouts to multiple foes, attempting to kill her on several occasions including calling down an orbital strike on her location, and having her beaten to a pulp for a day and a half. 
> 
> Vector is well aware that it is the Cabal, and namely Hunter, who has done all of this to his _wife_. Vector is extremely loyal and also very open about what the agent means to him: he is inspired by her, he credits her with his success as a person and as a diplomat, he is grateful for her support and influence in his bringing about the greatest achievement of his diplomatic career, he has pledged her his love and protection (all in-game dialogue, not my constructs). And yet - the game would have it that Vector ignores Hunter's being directly responsible for almost all of his wife's sufferings, and be blithely approving of the merciful choice. I understand why it was set up that way, but when viewing it through the lens of Vector's feelings for the Agent, it can be considered a little hard to swallow. I just had a difficult time accepting, "Oh, right, you've been trying to kill the love of my life for ages now? That's okay, have a kolto pack."
> 
> From this standpoint, considering his devotion to agent, his punishing them for their crimes is natural and believable.
> 
> 2\. Also, on Belsavis, I had Vector make that comment about revenge. At the time, it was a matter of him trying to come to terms with his use of violence since being with the agent (and because, y'know, trash mobs), and trying to understand the acceptable parameters and limits of using violence as a problem-solving technique (self-defense/defense of others vs war vs murder, for example), but I didn't think much more about the ramifications of that comment until the torture scene. "Crap," I thought, "I can't have him say something like that and then not follow through on it. He'll look like a hypocrite."
> 
> 3\. Much of Vector's story regards the challenges he faces at balancing the two halves of his nature, and most of the quests/conversations show him shifting to more human-like, and easier to relate to. A lot of his Killik aspects and connections get pushed to the background, but I don't think this would be the case. He comes to find the equilibrium between his human and Killik natures, and while the story (in-game and here) have both dealt far more with his humanity, I wanted to demonstrate that he was still very much in touch with his Killik brethren. He is still part of the hive, and they would see his fight as their own.
> 
> 4\. Finally, Vector has already taken part in one vengeance - Lokin's crusade against Protean. Lokin made high-minded excuses, but Vector saw it for the revenge and power play that it was. Having done this once, he wouldn't balk at it a second time, particularly given that this time, it involved his wife. 
> 
> 5\. I sent Scorpio with Vector because he needed someone cold-blooded with him, and also because one of his later letters to agent discusses getting to know Scorpio better.


	31. Life After Death

“The Museum of Military History,” Cipher said thoughtfully, craning her head back to look at the scorched walls of the main hall, hung with tattered banners and strewn with debris. “Does that make it a military target or a civilian one?”

 

“Civilian,” Vector sighed with sad decisiveness.

 

“There was a time when civilian targets were off-limits. Either someone is considering this a military facility,” Cipher replied, using her foot to nudge aside fragments of shattered glass surrounding empty cabinets that once had displayed an assortment of historical weaponry, “or the Republic has stopped playing by the rules.”

 

Sandbagged barriers, protecting Republic turret guns, were arrayed across the carpeting which still showed some vestiges of bright red color beneath the grime of black footprints. The museum had been ransacked; every weapon, no matter how old, that anyone had thought of potential use or value had been stolen, although some had apparently not been worth the trouble, if the sight of those discarded on the floor were any indication.

 

“Rules are broken on both sides,” observed Vector neutrally as he followed Cipher down a broad staircase of fractured steps to where one of several heavy pillars supported the building, or much of what remained of it. As Cipher began rigging an explosive to the pillar, he added, “We never thought we'd be the sort to bomb historical sites.”

 

Keeper had been in touch with the next part of the plan: It was almost a certainty that the Star Cabal had been tracking Cipher's movements, few as they had been, since her interrogation, so it was necessary to throw off Hunter's surveillance to enable her to move freely when Keeper had pinpointed their location. According to Keeper, Cipher's self-sacrifice had produced its intended result: encrypted messages, flying wildly through space, were bouncing between dozens of different scrambling beacons, pursued, on occasion, by credit transfers. When added to data mined from Scorpio's expansive knowledge, Keeper was positive that it was only a matter of time until the Star Cabal's central operation was revealed in full – and that revelation would need Cipher at liberty. Their mission now was to secure that liberty, in a singularly curious fashion: faking Cipher's death. Keeper's suggestion was to rig the already tenuous substructure of the museum with a number of explosives to speed it along on its journey towards total collapse. A secret tunnel from the basement would ensure their survival and escape. Cipher hoped she would be better at faking her death than she had been at faking her succumbing to torture.

 

“Maybe,” Cipher offered hesitantly, “the museum curators were able to move some of the collection to a secure location.”

 

“Maybe,” Vector agreed, although his voice indicated he was thoroughly unconvinced and utterly hopeless on the matter.

 

Any further discussion was cut off as they were abruptly interrupted by a young woman, armed and indignant, who darted from cover and leveled a blaster at them.

 

“Don't move! Down on the ground,” she ordered. “The SIS wants you alive, but I really don't.”

 

At a glance from Cipher, Vector obligingly raised his hands above his head and knelt beside her, but his attention was focused more on her state of mind than his own position. A surge of surprise and shame crippled her aura, and he knew that the question occupying her mind at this moment was how she had been so stupid and careless as to have let them be caught unawares.

 

“I don't want to fight you,” Cipher said, more or less sincerely. Her tone was moderate, masking her chagrin. “Tell me what this is about.”

 

“I know who you are, Cipher Nine. You murdered the Eagle. You made it easy for the Imps to pick off his followers one by one. Probably would've gotten my cell, too, but the SIS found us first. Said we had a common enemy.”

 

“Really, this is just beyond the pale,” Cipher huffed to herself, her hands over her head as she braced her knees against the floor, awaiting her opening. She tried to quell a growing sensation of ice-cold rage by focusing on a nagging feeling that this SIS agent seemed somehow familiar, but she hadn't been able to get a clear view of the woman's face, and her own inability to put aside her distracting annoyance with herself was playing with her concentration. Cipher raised her voice to her unknown attacker. “Well, I've been through this before – people with grudges who keep coming after me. Has it ever occurred to you that you are being played?”

 

“You're surprised a lot of people want you dead?” the young woman retorted with a sneer. “After everything you've done? Someone sent us your name, your face – that's all I needed for revenge.”

 

“Revenge? How personal. This isn't just about the Eagle, is it?” surmised Cipher, glancing over her shoulder to survey the woman's face, etched in dark lines of anger and hurt, as she asked her questions. Information, knowledge, understanding – these were stabilizing things, illuminating things, things she relied on to let her see her way clearly, without the coloring of her own emotions – if only her emotions would suffer themselves to return to their proper places. “What was your name again?”

 

“Neyla Hawkins,” snapped the SIS agent. “Yes, my sister's one of the people you destroyed – just another name on a very long list.”

 

“You think I am responsible for Mia? Oh boy, do you need to back that speeder up and get your facts straight,” Cipher answered in a snippy tone, her irritation and frustration stabbing through the cracks in her slipping mask. “Yes, I met your sister Mia. Or rather, she met _me._ Of her own choosing, on Tatooine. There's quite a family resemblance between you, actually, now that I see it. And I'm sure it is utterly pointless to explain this to you, but Mia and I parted on cordial terms. I never raised a hand or blaster against her, and she was alive and well when we concluded our business. Where she went after that, or what she did, or how she lived or how she died, is her affair and hers alone. If you don't like the choices she made, I would suggest you take it up with her. I have nothing to do with it, regardless of whatever lies your charming friend told you.”

 

“He said you'd say something like that,” Neyla retorted. “Deny your involvement, claim your innocence, lie to save your own skin.”

 

“And what makes you think _he_ is so trustworthy?” Cipher spat scornfully, unable to keep her cold contempt out of her tone. Vector held still, watching the blossoming of rage in her aura, blooming into acrimonious fury with a metallic fragrance of bitterness, and he tensed to move, although with what goal, he had as yet no idea. “Apparently, the family resemblance between you and Mia doesn't extend to brains. She was a lot smarter than this.”

 

“That's enough!” Neyla stormed. “Hawkins to team; swarm on my location! Moving to subdue!”

 

Cipher, even in her blinding anger, was quick to see and react to the trio of SIS special forces stomping down the shattered staircase. She rolled aside, gathering her feet beneath her, and as she brought up her rifle to fire, she could see that Vector had already engaged one of the SIS soldiers with his Killik pike. It didn't take long to remove the soldiers from the melee; Neyla was a bit tougher, however. She wasn't about to go down without fighting her utmost, and ignoring her severe wounds, she lunged ferociously at Cipher, her face twisted fiercely.

 

Sniper rifles, Cipher had learned long ago, were not the greatest weapon for close-quarters combat, so she was not particularly surprised at Neyla's last-ditch decision to close the distance between them – it was the former terrorist's final chance to gain the upper hand. Cipher kicked out, catching Neyla in the stomach with her knee and knocking her heavily to the floor. Cipher snatched her sidearm blaster from its holster and leveled it at the young woman's head, her breathing rapid and ragged in her throat. Neyla, on her knees, froze as she stared down the barrel.

 

“I should kill you,” Cipher gasped, her voice seething with fury. Her aura was jagged with the shrapnel of things that had been recently broken and, though mending, were yet still too fragile to bear new weight; Vector saw that she teetered on the edge of the loss of all self-control. “I should kill you! I have suffered too much at the hands of people who claim to be SIS – ”

 

Her voice choked, and her hand holding the blaster shook, the finger poised over the trigger trembling so violently that she risked firing without her conscious decision to do so. The muscles in her neck stood out taut and visible beneath her azure skin.

 

"It's justified! An enemy soldier! In war!” she hissed harshly far below her breath. But her foe was defenseless, wounded, and at her mercy. Pulling the trigger now would not be an act of battle, it would be an execution. Perhaps that was the source of her hesitation, or perhaps it was some sense of compassion for Neyla having been manipulated by Hunter as surely as many another had been. Cipher recognized that even she herself could be counted among Hunter's prey; could she blame Neyla when she had been nearly as weak? The only thing that separated their positions was that Cipher knew so much that Neyla did not. Cipher knew the truth. Neyla held her breath, certain her life was about to end.

 

"Agent," Vector said with soft caution. Slowly, he stretched out his hand, laying it gently on her wrist, feeling the severity with which it shuddered beneath his fingertips. He could see her struggling, desperately trying to pull herself together, to find some concrete and logical thing to cling to that would enable her to stuff her emotions back in the box they belonged in and return to her the clear-headed calm she usually displayed during work. Her physical wounds had healed, but the emotional and mental ones still had some way to go, and she did not have the benefit of Intelligence's Minders to assist her through it.

 

When she had declared herself ready to return to the field, he had hesitated, wishing she could have more healing, more rest, and more peace to fortify her. She had noticed his uncertainty, and shaken her head sadly.

 

“You're right, you know,” she agreed then. “But we don't have the luxury of that much time.”

 

Without that unaffordable luxury, Cipher walked a knife's perilous edge, needing to expend more of her energy on maintaining her functionality and professional focus when the demanding mission required her to spend that energy elsewhere. It wouldn't take much for her poise to shatter. It hadn't taken much. This was so different from her aloof scoffing at Pahon Cortess' puerile rantings, or her nonchalant negotiations with Fa'athra the Hutt – _she_ was different. Vector could feel the tension straining the muscles in her arm, and as she let him lower her hand, he saw her win her conflict with herself; her shoulders quivering with her breathing and the violence of her rapid heartbeat as she conquered her outburst of feeling. His voice, and his touch, had served as the concrete and logical thing she could grab onto to center herself again.

 

Cipher's burning eyes were fixed on Neyla, and Vector glanced at the terrorist-turned-SIS agent. “You have five seconds to get out of here,” he said flatly, “before we will be tempted to kill you ourselves.”

 

With glazing eyes, Neyla returned his gaze steadily, feeling stupidly curious about his manner of expression, before she answered. “It wouldn't do any good,” she said finally. In these long tense moments as she stared Cipher's blaster in the eye, she'd had a surprising amount of time to consider her position. “My team is dead. I got them killed, that's on me. I'm bleeding out. I won't make it to the top of the stairs. And I – I want to see my sister.”

 

One of the soldier's carbine rifles lay nearby, and, with a whimper as she moved, Neyla reached for it. “If it makes it easier for you...” she offered, fumbling to grip the blaster with numbing fingers. Blood trickled down her brow and she looked at them unflinchingly. “I want to see Mia.”

 

Neyla raised the carbine, and Cipher's crisis resolved itself in the face of an enemy who was no longer unarmed. She fired, and Neyla's lifeless body slumped across the floor. Cipher raised her face to Vector's, speechless but for the troubled look in her eyes. He laid his arms around her, and she stood stiffly in his embrace a long moment before bowing her head and pressing it to his shoulder.

 

“It's okay,” he soothed. “You will be okay.”

 

“What if I'm not?” she objected, strained and queasy at the idea. “I don't want to be like this. I'm barely in control of myself. I'm hesitant. I don't trust my judgment. This is how agents die. This is how agents get others killed. I don't want to be like this. This isn't me. Vector, this isn't me.”

 

“We know,” he replied, and he felt her tense in his arms almost fearfully, and he shrewdly understood it. Her assessment, and his agreement, that she was not herself carried a weighty implication: if this weren't her, if she were now a different person, then did that mean he wouldn't love her? Two weeks ago, she would have laughed over such an esoteric question of philosophy, and they would have sat up late in conversation, poring over the topic. But the security of herself had been ripped violently away from her since then, and she was still working on reassembling the pieces. It wasn't, he thought, unlike a secret apprehension she once had had, one she had confided to him one night as they lay with their cooling bodies entwining them perfectly together: If Vector had chosen to revert to full human, would his feelings for her have changed? It had been all hypothetical then, and he could see she feared that it wasn't so now.

 

“It will take time,” he said softly, brushing back the hair from her temple. “But we will be with you for every moment that it takes, and for every moment after. We hope you don't doubt that.”

 

“No,” Cipher admitted shakily, “but... I might need you to remind me of that from time to time. I'm not so confident as I once was. 'Speak of the wound,' indeed.” In her last words, there was a heavy, biting quality to her voice that tasted sour to Vector's ear.

 

“The wound?” Vector repeated with mild confusion.

 

“Something Amun-Le said in the Shrine of Healing. I guess you could say she warned me of this, in a way,” Cipher explained dismally. “In essence – what was it that injured me, what held me back, what did I fear? This is it. Failure and weakness. Everything I am now. I can't face Hunter like this. So much of what made me a good agent – I've lost it. It's gone.”

 

“You haven't lost it; it's not gone forever,” Vector reassured her. He looked into the pained expression in her eyes for a brief moment, mustering his thoughts, and explained, “Agent, there was a time when we knew, beyond a doubt, that our career in the Imperial Diplomatic Service was over. We had made successful first contact with the Killiks, established a rapport with emissaries of the nest – in short, we did exactly what a diplomat should have done, and did it well. That this resulted in the end of our diplomatic career – well, we appreciated the irony, at least. We had no idea that the most impressive achievement of our diplomatic work still lay in our future. We were so certain that our work was part of our past alone that we did not even attempt to remember it, let alone credit ourselves with the idea that we could again be good at it. Until you. You told us we still had our skills, and our training. We knew you well enough by then to know this wasn't a polite lie, and we respected your judgment well enough to take your assessment seriously. And you were right. We were still a diplomat. Perhaps even a better one than what we once had been.

 

“And so it is with you. You haven't lost anything; those criminals will never have that power over you. When we look at you, we see neither failure nor weakness,” Vector continued, his voice soft with sincerity. “We don't see the end of your career. We see still one of the best agents ever to honor the Empire. We see bravery. We see strength. Brilliance like the brightest of stars. A valiant spirit that is daunted by nothing, not even the worst that the galaxy could throw at her. We see the woman we love.”

 

The gentle kiss he placed on her trembling lips was interrupted by a disembodied voice as a nearby holoterminal flashed feebly to life.

 

“We know you're in there, Cipher Nine,” said the image of an SIS Commander. Neyla's boss, perhaps, aware that her team was never again going to emerge from the museum. “I've already ordered all SIS forces to withdraw – that building is unstable and will crush everyone inside. Come out and surrender.”

 

There was a beat of time in which Cipher weighed her response. “I don't think so,” she replied loudly, more steadily than Vector would have expected. “Life as a prisoner of war doesn't sound appealing.”

 

Dropping her voice to murmur in Vector's ear, she added shrewdly, “I was tempted not to answer, but I'm sure Hunter is tapping their line – I would if I were in his position – so what better way to assure him that we're in the building?”

 

Following her cue to be quiet, Vector's only response was to slightly tighten his arms around her in an approving hug. The SIS Commander was saying something regarding prisoner treatment and the official POW list in the Republic. “You might even go home some day,” he concluded magnanimously, sounding only a bit pompous about it.

 

“I wish it were that simple,” Cipher called back. “But it isn't. For the record, I believe you. But I've already made my choice.”

 

The SIS man's response was cut off by a tremendous crash as the first stage of the building began its collapse. There wasn't much time; the explosives were set and would shortly do their destructive work.

 

“We've met finer negotiators,” opined Vector, turning away from the holoterminal and the museum artifacts, soon to be crushed. He led a few steps along a corridor and gestured. “There's the escape tunnel.”

 

A second crash followed on the heels of the first, and they increased their purposeful trot to an all-out sprint. The dark corridor shuddered and shook, with rubble tumbling from the ceiling about them as they ran. Heavy stone fragments of the building caved in the mouth of the tunnel, and the air behind them filled with choking fine dust. The collapsed hallway blocked the remaining light that had filtered into the tunnel from the museum; the corridor ahead was dark, and they stumbled forward with unsure footing towards a dim light in an open area ahead. It seemed to be a sort of junction between several subterranean tunnels, perhaps for maintenance or sewer access, illuminated by tepid and filmy sunlight filtering through the grates overhead.

 

The air was somewhat stale in spite of the access to the open street above, and the tunnel across from them belched forth a particularly fetid odor, but it was the only air available, so Cipher breathed it, one hand pressed against her ribs as she recovered from the dash to safety.

 

“You know,” she remarked, panting, “We're starting to make a regular habit out of outrunning explosions.”

 

“We were thinking the same ourselves,” Vector agreed. “We're concerned that when we include this in our memoirs, we'll never be believed. How many explosions can a person escape and still hope for plausibility?”

 

Cipher's communicator chirped.

 

“Holocams missed your exist, and SIS chatter is reporting an Imperial Intelligence operative caught in the explosion,” reported Keeper. “Officially speaking, you're now dead. Congratulations.”

 

“No state funeral, I suppose,” Cipher answered satirically with a rather mirthless smile.

 

“Well, no open casket, at any rate,” Keeper replied. “Explosions are a messy way to go. You're off the conspirators' scanners, at least for a little while. This is it, Cipher. Meet me on the starship _Tenebrous_ , at these coordinates, and we'll destroy the Star Cabal for good.”

 

\- - - -

 

“I've never been dead before,” Cipher observed with something like her old playfulness as they slipped surreptitiously back into the Imperial spaceport, avoiding the Imperial holocams as assiduously as they had the Republic ones.

 

“And what is your impression of it?” Vector inquired, his mouth quirking.

 

“Not as peaceful as I had envisioned,” Cipher said with fair consideration. “But I'm happy to find it's pretty painless; I once told Kaliyo I wanted a painless death so I could give it my full attention. So far, it's not so bad, all things considered. You?”

 

“We were contemplating what Lokin had to say about Cipher Three – if he were not, in fact, lucky in his death, tragic as it was,” said Vector. “We find ourselves agreeing with him. It's rather a nice thing to die in the company of those we love best.”

 

The music of Cipher's responding laugh warmed him, and he slipped his hand into hers with an affectionate smile.

 

“When we're done with this,” he promised, “we are taking you away somewhere. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere peaceful.”

 

“So long as it's not a graveyard, anywhere with you is perfect.”

 

Shortly after, Raina Temple traded security clearance codes with the Imperial traffic control officers and the  _Phantom_ slipped the bonds of Corellian gravity and disappeared into space, headed for the  _Tenebrous_ , ostensibly with two less people on board.

 

“Thanks, Temple,” Cipher gave her a subordinate a nod. “The bridge is yours, if you don't mind.”

 

“Of course, sir,” Temple replied. “I'll update you if anything changes.”

 

With duty seen to, Cipher headed for the private quarters where Vector sat awaiting her. As she entered, he regarded her with his fathomless dark eyes, watching as she took off the invisible mantle of cipher agent and revealed the Paha that lived underneath, the parts that she did not show to the world beyond these thin, man-made walls. The parts that were bruised and frightened, normally protected by the durasteel of her rank and power, and that she was too proud to let anyone other than him see. The parts that were fragile. He opened his arms to her, and with out a word, she went to him.

 

She stood there some minutes, with her head bowed over his and feeling the security of his embrace, and the light of her aura flickered like the flame of a candle in the dark: brave, delicate, and solitary.

 

But she was not alone – although, he recalled, she had begged him not to let her forget it. With the slight pressure of his strong hands, he drew her down to sit beside him on the bed, sliding a supporting arm around her with a small sigh, one Paha could not immediately identify as indicative of contentment or worry. Sensing he wanted to speak, she looked at him expectantly; her perceptive encouragement prompted a tiny, serious smile to curl his lips.

 

“We were only thinking, Paha – we’ll never be a great spy, or 'covert assault operative,'” Vector spoke quietly.

 

“Aren't you?” she answered pointedly.

 

“Not like you are,” he said, and she noted the word choice: _are_ , not _were_. “Although we think we are maybe a bit better than adequate in a support role. And even with all the demands on your time and attention, y ou still helped us be a diplomat and a Dawn Herald. We are not sure we would have found the balance of our nature without you. We are grateful for your patience and your guidance.”

 

“And I'll never be a great ambassador. And you've helped me be a – well, whatever I am, now, even if I don't have an official title,” Paha replied. A somewhat arch smile flitted across her countenance. “Although from the sound of it, I guess I do pretty well in a supporting role, too.”

 

“Nonetheless,” he said, nestling her close against him, “we wanted you to know it. Our appreciation, and our gratitude.”

 

“I don't think you have to be grateful,” she said, laying her head along his shoulder. “I was young when my father died; I don't know as that I ever really had much of a relationship or marriage model to follow. But I think this is how it's supposed to be. We’re here to support each other.”

 

Vector turned to place a gentle kiss, as he so often did, on her brow, just at the hairline, and rested his cheek against her head, scenting the soft odor of her hair, the tangy fragrance of her aura, and the vestiges of the dust of Corellia that clung to her jacket.

 

“We received a message from the Killiks,” he added a moment later. “The Colony embraces the Imperial alliance and offered us the chance to become Dawn Herald to all nests.”

 

“Oh, what an fantastic opportunity!” Paha raised her head, and her cheery excitement, shining from the red embers of her eyes, glowed on him as one of her first emotions since her ordeal that was unhindered by its tainting shadow. “Congratulations, Vector; you deserve the honor. We should celebrate – ”

 

He broke into her exclamations. “We refused the role.”

 

Paha blinked, slightly bewildered. “Refused it? But why?”

 

“Because our priorities are clear.” He lifted a hand to smooth the hair back from our face. “And our priority is you. We’ll stand at your side; we'll work with you and defend your legacy until the end.”

 

She blinked again, and Vector saw that the cause this time was not confusion, but emotion. She took a breath; her voice was soft and its edges were unsteady as she answered. “ _Our_ legacy,” she corrected. “It's not just mine anymore. It's just as much yours.”

 

“Ours, then,” he agreed, and he kissed her. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it has been so long since my last update! I've been pretty busy with work and holiday junk, but I've got some time off coming up, and I am very hopeful to complete this story by the end of the year. Also, for many prior chapters, I had material written ahead, and only needed to clean up or re-word a few things; I'm through almost all of this, so it is taking me a little longer to write, edit, proof, and post new chapters. Thanks very much for your patience!


	32. The Eve of Destruction

“The _Tenebrous_ ,” Temple nodded as she leaned over the navigation console to get a better view of the ship that hung before them in space. A beacon flashed beside a hangar, the force field across its open bay door flickering palely blue. “And it looks like they're expecting us.”

 

“I don't imagine they'd be expecting very many else,” replied Lokin. “We're all that's left.”

 

Doctor Lokin's assessment wasn't exactly accurate; Fixer Twelve, a gruff-voiced man Cipher recalled meeting once or twice in passing, greeted them as she stepped off the ramp of the _Phantom_.  Their ranks were certainly thinned, and thinned severely, but there were at least a few adherents to the old causes.

 

“It's good to have you on board, Cipher,” he said in a thick low Imperial accent. “Meet what's left of Intelligence.”

 

“Kind of sad, huh?” interrupted a familiar and thoroughly sarcastic voice that instantly prompted Cipher's lips to twist in a smile. “These guys can't even play a decent game of sabacc.”

 

Kaliyo stood nearby, her arms folded and her shoulder propped against a stack of crates in her old attitude. Being a prisoner of the Empire had not, evidently, done anything to diminish her irreverent and sardonic nature. Cipher resisted a momentary urge to completely embarrass her friend with a demonstrative welcome, exchanging instead a bright-eyed glance with Vector. Their team was whole again.

 

“Have you entirely cleaned them out yet, or have they wised up to the fact that you cheat?” Cipher asked with amusement.

 

“Cheating's the point,” Kaliyo grinned, as she strolled casually over. “Hell, it's good to see you. No hugs. It's not like prison made me soft or anything.”

 

“We wouldn't expect it would have,” Vector observed dryly. He was certain their suppositions on Kaliyo's arrest had been correct; his curiosity, however, prompted to ask for confirmation anyway. “We're glad you're alright. How long have you been here?”

 

“A few days, maybe a week,” Kaliyo shrugged. “Your old bosses set up the escape. I've been running jobs for them – pay is bad, but I wanted my crack at the scum who messed with us.”

 

“I hope you're ready, then,” Cipher replied. “Because you're about to get that chance.”

 

“The Minister of Intelligence suggested using her,” said Keeper, who had just entered, accompanied by a medical droid. She looked thin and pale, with dark hollows beneath her eyes and cheeks somewhat grayer than Cipher remembered. Regardless of what she had ordered Cipher to go through, Keeper had clearly had her own crosses to bear. “He was right – she's very good.”

 

“I suspected as much,” Cipher said, her voice neutral.  Seeing Keeper in person now, after Corellia, was unsettling to her.  “Hello, Keeper. It's almost like old times, isn't it? Is the Minister here, too?”

 

“Yes – The Minister brought us together after Intelligence was dissolved. He accelerated my treatments and recruited a core of loyal operatives. We're working to find the Star Cabal's base of operations.” Keeper seemed poised to say more, but her wan cheeks faded to a gray more ghastly than the one she had already displayed, her eyes flitting too quickly over her surroundings, and she concluded quickly, “He'll explain the rest in the conference room.”

 

“You should not be moving,” intoned the medical droid at her side before Cipher could speak. “I will prepare a fresh dosage.”

 

Cipher narrowed her eyes slightly. “You're still not well, are you?” she inquired. Vector, his lips compressed, awaited the answer. Keeper's last suggestion while she was in this state had resulted in his wife's enduring some of the most savage treatment he could imagine, and he was prepared to be more vocal in his opposition to more such foolhardy plans this time around, should the need arise. If Keeper's judgment were still compromised, then someone needed to be able to speak up on Paha's behalf. And with Cipher questioning her own abilities and perceptions, she might not be in a position to be her own advocate.

 

“I am the mistress's medical assistant,” replied the droid in programmed tones of professional blandness. “Her neurochemical levels will require regulation within twenty minutes.”

 

Keeper refocused herself with the effort of her will, and, with something like her old manner, she replied pithily, “Twenty-three minutes. I can still do basic math.” As her eyes swept rapidly over Cipher and her team, her gaze collided with Vector's, and he fancied she read something in his face, for she squared her shoulders brusquely, raising her chin with resolution and a competent look.  Evidently, his disapproval of her methods was more obvious than he had thought.

 

“I'm sorry; I'm fine,” she said calmly. “I just need more rest than usual.”

 

“If I can help in any way...” Cipher began with some hesitation.  It wasn't an offer solely made from kindness; more than anyone else, Cipher had reason to believe that a debilitated Keeper was a dangerous Keeper.  

 

“What _will_ help,” Keeper said in a crisp, flat voice, “is eliminating the Star Cabal, along with every trace of their existence. I believe you can do that for me.”

 

Keeper turned away, leading to the conference room, leaving Cipher staring after her. Vector's attention had already shifted away from Keeper's aura – disrupted, uneasy, and, if Vector's assessment was correct, guilt-ridden – and back to Cipher's, which still showed ample signs of fragile cracks, delineated by the darkness that seeped from the fissures between the fragments still knitting themselves together.  Keeper's obvious state, and the harsh veneer she used to overlay her condition, had not reassured Cipher.  Neither, Vector admitted to himself, had it reassured him.  And yet their futures lay jointly in her hands and the hands of a superior who had callously stripped Cipher of her own free will.  Once upon a time, he had considered diplomacy to be the most delicate of matters; one wrong word could destroy weeks of work.  It had been good practice, he thought, for the far more dangerous work of Intelligence.

 

“We are with you,” he said quietly, leaning forward over Cipher's shoulder so that only her ear could catch it. Cipher ignored the look of curiosity Kaliyo cast her, and raised her face to his with a grimly determined twist of her lips, not quite a smile. Her response was mute, but eloquent to him in its gratitude and resolution, and he trailed slightly in her wake as she proceeded to the conference room and the Minister of Intelligence.

 

\- - - -

 

Cipher had expected Keeper to join the meeting with the Minister of Intelligence, and was faintly surprised when Minister showed no signs of waiting for her as he beckoned Cipher into the _Tenebrous_ ' spacious conference room. It certainly wasn't the first time he had elected to brief her personally, without the presence of Keeper, the person who – ostensibly – reigned over the operatives of Intelligence, or what remained of it, but it nonetheless gave Cipher pause.

 

With Intelligence already so fragmented and brittle, there were some troubling implications of Keeper's being shut out. By Keeper's own words, it was Minister who had pushed her treatments – clearly, he still found her useful – but how far did his confidence in his damaged subordinate extend? And if he didn't trust Keeper because of what the Star Cabal had done to her, then, for similar reasons, what trust could he place in Cipher?

 

“Last we talked,” Minister said without preamble, “I sent you to hunt 'invisible agents' manipulating the war. How did that mission turn out?”

 

It was an odd question, and an open-ended one. Cipher had already sent her report over one of Keeper's encrypted channels as soon as she had cobbled it together as Corellia shrank behind them. There had been ample time for both Keeper and Minister to read it. They knew the facts of the events on Corellia – so what was it Minister was really asking?

 

It wasn't difficult to rephrase it: _are you, Cipher, so weak that you will not finish what you have started?_ Well. Was she? Keeper was gamely pushing on, and she had suffered as much at the Cabal's hands as Cipher had, and Minister knew it. A wave of proud determination swept over her. If this precarious venture failed, it was not going to be her fault, no matter what had been done to her – or who had been ultimately responsible for any part of it.

 

She raised her chin; Minister was waiting for an answer, and he would note her hesitation if it continued. “It was more complicated than expected,” she replied neutrally. If he were going to ask questions in shades of gray, then she was going to answer them similarly. She mustered up a small, civil smile. “It's been a while, sir.”

 

“Indeed. Welcome back from your tour of duty,” he answered, not unkindly.  His face was as impassive as ever, although his voice took on the faintest shade of annoyance as he added, “I've spent my time calling in favors.”

 

“I guessed as much,” Cipher said. There as a part of her, a very bitter part, that wanted to laugh, openly laugh, at her superior. To visit offices and play politics; what a heavy cross to bear! And all while his most capable subordinates suffered prolonged beatings and lay in comas. Cipher pushed away her rebellious mockery, keeping her look pleasant.

 

“We now face a conspiracy as old as the Emperor,” continued Minister, “and nearly as powerful. Pity we have to destroy it.”

 

“Pity, perhaps, but they want to rule the galaxy,” Cipher answered evenly. “This war is meant to wipe us out, on both sides. Remove the Jedi and Sith, Republic and Empire, and start over. I'll take dismantling them over lying down beneath the wheels of their juggernaut any day of the week.”

 

“That is heartening to hear,” Minister said. If he were looking for confirmation that Cipher were ready to face the orchestrators of the conspiracy – of Keeper's state, of her own ordeal – then her words seemed to mollify his apprehensions. “That is also their weakness. Spies cannot be zealots.”

 

Conversing with Minister was ever an exercise in hidden meanings and doublespeak, and Cipher read a warning in his comment: use your anger; don't let it use you.

 

“Your work on Corellia allowed us to trace the conspirators' communications to a space station in the Null Zone,” he continued in brusque, business-like tones. “We believe that station to be their base of operations.”

 

“What do we know about it? Size, specifications, total personnel aboard – ?” Cipher inquired.

 

“Based on its hyperwave silhouette it could pass as a deep space refueling post. But its energy readings are masked.” The Minister of Intelligence squared his shoulders, leveling his direct gaze at Cipher. “I want you to take your team there immediately. Any delay, and we risk the enemy escaping. Eliminate any members of the inner circle present, and obtain their records – the names of their followers, their resources, and every black project they've co-opted.”

 

“Straightforward enough,” Cipher answered glibly, with a confidence she hoped was more apparent than she felt. “Search, destroy, retrieve. What about conspirators who aren't aboard?”

 

“With the Star Cabal's secrets, we can scour the galaxy for what's left of their membership. Otherwise, they'll soon regroup. Of course, the conspirators' secrets have other uses. Once this crisis passes...” Minister's inscrutable voice went dark around the edges. “...the Sith will want them in safe hands.”

 

“Safe hands,” repeated Cipher. “Of course.” With her orders and her mission in hand, she was poised to leave, but Minister abruptly spoke again.

 

“Cipher, when I began at Intelligence, I saw it as a distraction from my military career. Eventually, I grew to accept my role. I developed goals in place of ideals, and I found ways to achieve those goals. I hoped authority would help me effect change.”

 

Cipher held very still, uncertain of Minister's meaning. In a way, this almost sounded like a prelude to an... apology? Or at least an acknowledgment of what had been demanded of Cipher and Keeper, sacrificed to goals alongside Minister's ideals. At this point, did it even matter? All the words in the galaxy couldn't undo what had been done.

 

“But for us, there are limits to what authority can do,” he concluded, sounding almost disillusioned, if Cipher read him correctly. That was always a challenge that never got easier. Anything else he was about to say was overridden by the chirping of the holoterminal on the conference table.

 

“Ship's overhaul is finished, sir,” chimed in Fixer Twelve from the holo. “She'll get to the station out of sight.”

 

“The operation begins,” Minister commanded straightly, all trace of what had been on his tongue effaced. “Stop the conspirators, and take back everything they've stolen.”

 

Cipher's innate curiosity pushed forward. There was a very good chance that this might be the last time she spoke to the Minister of Intelligence. If she failed, she would be dead, and whatever the Minister had been about to say would be forever silenced. Where had his final speech been leading? What had he been about to say? She couldn't hold in the question – and if she were being sent now to her death, did it matter how tactfully she asked it?

 

“Wait,” she blurted out, “If you have something to say to me, Minister, be direct.”

 

“You heard the call,” he replied coldly. “Your ship is waiting.”

 

\- - - -

 

“Your ship is now outfitted with the best cloaking device we could provide,” Keeper reported at the foot of the ramp to the _Phantom_. “But once you're aboard, you'll need to move fast. Take out any conspirators quick as you can. Anyone not there in person, we'll start hunting down as soon as you identify them. I can monitor you so long as you keep an open channel. We'll be with you through the assault. Are you ready?”

 

Cipher's mouth twisted in a mirthless smile, and to Vector's eye, even Keeper, with all her skill and professionalism, could not entirely repress the shudder that it invoked. While it was true that Keeper had her own demons of trauma to hold at bay, it was clear that Keeper did have at least some vague idea of what the Star Cabal and Intelligence, together, had done to Cipher. She knew what responsibility she bore for it all.

 

“Whether I'm ready or not is rather immaterial, isn't it?” Cipher asked, not entirely masking the bitterness in her voice. Whether that was by intent or by accident, Vector could not decide.

 

“I suppose so,” Keeper answered, her face shrouded.  Theirs was a complicated relationship - some strange mingling of professional respect and personal trust that made them something like friends.  And Keeper had ordered her friend to endure torture because she couldn't think of anything else.  Small wonder and small blame if Cipher's professional respect and personal trust were diminished as a result.  Being the recipient of a few bitter words was more than understandable.  Keeper felt her failure keenly; her inability to devise a better plan may have ruined one of Intelligence's best - and most truly loyal - agents forever.

 

“Cipher,” Keeper offered suddenly, as she watched her agent turn to enter the ship, “be careful. And good luck.”

 

It was the best she could do, and she would have to be satisfied with the mere nod she received in return. Cipher's job was to stop the Star Cabal, after all – not play nursemaid to Keeper's impressions of guilt.

 

“Are you?” asked Vector as the hatch door closed behind them. “Ready, we mean?”

 

“No,” Cipher answered without deliberation. “I'm not sure I ever would be, though. I'll always wonder if there were something more I could have done.”

 

“We think it is a little premature to talk like that,” Vector replied, slipping his arm around her. “After all, we haven't lost yet.”

 

“True! No sense in celebrating our funerals before we're laid out, right?” The smile Cipher forced for him now was at least somewhat more genuine than the one she had bestowed upon Keeper, summoned up from the valiant reserves of bravery and determination, their glow growing slowly but steadily stronger in her aura day by day as she recovered.

 

She led the way to the bridge where she called up the coordinates to the Star Chamber, the Cabal's central headquarters, located in a particularly desolate stretch of the galaxy between Hutt space and the lawless Outer Rim, and once the _Phantom_ had left the _Tenebrous_ behind, she summoned her staff to brief them.

 

“This is the entirety of the plans and specs of the Star Chamber that Keeper was able to provide us,” she said, nodding to the translucent blue-green schematic that hovered in the air, rotating slowly, above the conference table's holoprojector. "Not the most detailed map in the world, I grant you, but we've worked with less, on occasion, so this will have to do.”

 

“Can I ask the obvious question?” interrupted Temple. “How do we get on board without tipping them off? The ship is cloaked, but even a cloaked ship will attract some attention when attached to an airlock.”

 

“Considering this is the Cabal's most secured secret,” Doctor Lokin agreed, raising his brows slightly, “I can't imagine that they wouldn't have every entrance alarmed, laser-tripped, pressure-plated – I wouldn't put it past them just to pile scrap desh in front of every door just to trip you up.”

 

“But why would they?” Kaliyo countered practically. “You said it yourself, Old Man, this is their most guarded secret, completely hidden. Why bother putting a million alarms on a facility that nobody else even knows exists?”

 

“A surprisingly sound point,” Scorpio mused thoughtfully. 'I would not have expected you to make it. Absolute secrecy is the most effective of all security systems, and draws the least amount of power.”

 

Kaliyo turned a skeptical eye on the droid. “I'm not sure if I'm supposed to say 'thank you' or 'piss off,'” she said with a somewhat bewildered scowl. “Maybe both?”

 

“But there's two issues with that,” Cipher pointed out. “First, the Cabal knows we are on to them – or were, at least, until my untimely demise in the Coronet City Museum of Military History. Second, they are the most excessively paranoid group I have ever heard of. Their contingency plans have contingency plans. They would, I am sure, guess that even with my passing, the remains of Intelligence would take up the cause, and that I would have shared with them any information I had. Couple that with their native caution, and that makes for a very compelling argument in favor of every security measure they can implement. Up to and including rigged piles of desh scrap, Doctor.”

 

“You got your hands on some docking codes, though, didn't you?” Kaliyo asked. “From some goons on Corellia?” As Cipher met with the Minister of Intelligence, Kaliyo had re-united with her shipmates, getting a rundown of the events that had transpired since her apparent arrest. It had only been, however, a cursory summary, and with Kaliyo's usual brash thoughtlessness, it was unlikely she had any concept of the pain associated with the codes she referred to. There was a second or two of silence, which Vector broke.

 

“We assume that they routinely change those codes,” he said evenly, jumping in quickly to give Cipher an instant to recover herself. “Certainly, they would have after we used them. They are too careful to take such a risk.”

 

“Suffice to say,” Cipher said, straightening her spine and hoping no one else noticed how she had dug her fingertips into the surface of the table, “there isn't going to be an easy way to board. No hangar bays, no airlocks, no docking rings. We must err on the side of caution and assume that everything is alarmed, even if only silently.”

 

“There was one time,” Lokin recalled, “when Cipher Three and I infiltrated a Black Sun ship on Onderon in order to – well, no matter what we were there for – the point being, the ship was locked up tight. We unbolted a grate and climbed in through a ventilation shaft.” Lokin glanced around the group. “I was much younger then. And thinner.”

 

Cipher was already zooming in on the holoprojection, surveying it closely for several minutes. “There,” she said at last, pointing. “It's not a ventilation shaft, but it will do.”

 

“What is it?” Temple asked.

 

Cipher made a wry grimace. “Garbage chute.”

 

The plan was straight-forward. The _Phantom_ would hold position beneath the Star Chamber using magnetic clamps while Cipher and Vector forced their way in via the refuse disposal system. If they could contrive to override the security lockdowns on the hangar bay to permit the _Phantom_ to enter, that would make leaving a bit easier – if, that is, they were suitably alive to be able to leave in the first place. If the _Phantom_ could land, then the ship would be left in Doctor Lokin's hands while Kaliyo, Temple, and Scorpio worked through whatever guards they could find on the outer ring of the station. The key members of the Cabal, Cipher was certain, would be hidden in the interior. If the _Phantom_ were forced to remain clamped beneath the station, then Kaliyo, Temple, and Scorpio would have to enter the hard way – climbing up the garbage chute behind Cipher and Vector.

 

“That's it,” Cipher concluded. There was a small pause as she took a breath. “You all know I'm not really one for grand speeches. But before we do this, I want you all to know that, no matter what happens, you are the finest team any agent could ever hope to work with. I am both proud, and honored.”

 

“The honor is ours, sir,” Temple said. “I think I speak for everyone.”

 

“It's been a good time,” Lokin agreed. “I hadn't realized how much I missed it until I was back in it. Thank you, Cipher.”

 

“We'll be at the Star Chamber in a little more than twelve hours,” Cipher said. “I suggest you all get some sleep.”

 

“Or do whatever it is we'd like to do in what may be our last few hours in the galaxy?” Kaliyo quipped with a smirk as she stood, stretching.

 

“I wasn't going to put it in such terms, but... in a word, yes. Thank you, Scorpio,” Cipher nodded to the droid as she filed out of the room, with the Ensign close behind. “Temple.”

 

“Well, all I can say is that if I'm checking out,” Kaliyo added, “this had better be one hell of an epic fight, since I clearly don't have a prayer of getting those two men of exceptional sexiness out here. Pity there won't be anyone to see it.”

 

“Twelve hours is more than enough time to wipe a mouse droid for a fresh recording and set it to follow you,” Cipher grinned, one eyebrow twitching upward, “although it's up to you to figure out how to get the footage out if you end up dead. Consider that part an incentive for staying alive.”

 

“My two hypothetical sexy men are a better incentive than a mouse droid, no matter how much it records.” Kaliyo folded her arms. “Meanwhile – you! I take my eye off you for a second, and you go off and get yourself married? To Bugboy?” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder to where Vector stood imperturbably beside the table.

 

“Guilty as charged,” Cipher replied serenely.

 

“Huh.” For once, Kaliyo seemed to be at something like a loss for words; despite the stress of the mission, and whatever it was Cipher had gone through on Corellia, Cipher seemed stupidly pleased on the subject her admission. Kaliyo regarded her friend thoughtfully for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, I don't get it, and I never will. I couldn't be with same guy more than six months without shooting him in the head. But for what it's worth, Agent – congrats. I'm happy for you.”

 

The smile Cipher gave her friend was genuine and warm. “Thanks, Kaliyo.”

 

“I'm still not hugging you.”

 

“Of course not. You were arrested, not lobotomized.”

 

Kaliyo backed out the conference room door, her lips curling in a saucy smile. “Considering we've only got twelve hours until we all likely end up dead in fantastically bloody ways, don't you two have something better you could be doing with your time?”

 

\- - - -

 

“I almost sent you away, you know?” confessed Paha softly some while later, staring at the monotonous gray ceiling above.

 

Vector lay prone on the bed, his head cradled on his folded arms and his face turned towards her. He inhaled, and although his eyes were closed, he could scent the sharp anxiety within her that had not been conquered even in the temporary cozy lull that followed her climax. Her lovemaking had been frenetic and agitated, shot through with desperation, the urgency of her actions and her need not driven by desire, but by the despairing thought that their time together might be far closer to finality than they had ever expected.

 

For all his practice at meditation, at measured responses and self-control, he fully admitted that it was more or less impossible not to similarly succumb to that awful thought, and he had clung to her wildly, gripping her hard with both hands. A whimpering cry bubbled over her lips, and he had a fearful pang that it was caused by pain, that he had clenched her so tightly as to leave bruises when she was still trying to come to terms with the memory of her abuse, but the instant passed immediately as she stiffened in raw ecstasy, crying out again, her muscles tight and her thighs locked around his waist, flinging him forward into his release.

 

She sat across his lap, her face in his shoulder and her breath in shaky gasps, and he panted into her hair as he held her, feeling the shift of her body against his as he rocked faintly, hardly more than a gently waver. After a few moments, she slid away, and he lay down, feeling cold without her embrace, and she placed herself beside him, but she wasn't settled – not like she usually was after such an activity. He rested his chin on his arms, scenting the uncomfortable mix of satisfaction and stress that filled the room. It wasn't fair, he thought rebelliously. None of this was fair.

 

“Away?” he repeated, confused and concerned.

 

“On Quesh. The second time,” Paha clarified. “I almost told you to take your time with Thenoth, as long as you could possibly ever want and then some, while I went on to handle Quesh and Kothe on my own.”

 

Vector was silent for a moment, mulling this over. “Why didn't you?”

 

“You already know the answer to that. I saw even then how much I relied on you.” Paha's gaze finally split from the ceiling as she turned her head slightly towards his, and some undefined expression tugged at the edges of her lips. “And I was being contrary. You know I don't like being controlled. Even by dreams. I knew I was being selfish, but all I could think was that I wanted your face to be the last I saw. I paid for it – when I realized just how much danger I had put you in.”

 

He turned a little, pushing himself up onto his side and propping up his head on one hand. “We are glad you didn't leave us behind. If you had, we might not be here now, you and us. And we would have wondered for the rest of our life if we could have changed the outcome had we been with you, instead of running errands for Falner Oeth. Glad isn't even an adequate word for it.” His voice dropped, rasping at the fringes. “You are everything to us. Wherever you go, we will be with you.”

 

“Even if I were to order you away now?” she asked in a faltering voice. Even as she had laid out the plan in the conference room, she had wrestled with the temptation to invent some pretext that would give him at least the opportunity to escape. To go into the Star Chamber with the melancholy comfort of the prospect of dying beside him was a solace she would deny herself if she could know she had kept his life safe, even as the idea made her edgy nerves tremble with fear. “So that you might live even if I fail?”

 

“We hope you will not give such an order. We're not accustomed to being insubordinate, but we would make an exception in this case.” He was rewarded with a flicker of a smile, although one that was nervous and sharp. “We told you we will be with you until the end. In truth, we would rather see the end together with you, whenever and wherever that is, than to live apart. Our life would be short anyway: the Star Cabal would hunt each of us down. Without you, we don't think we would last long – nor would we want to.”

 

She didn't answer immediately, and in the faint glow thrown off by the dimmed console in the corner, he could see tears glittering on her cheeks. As he raised his hand to brush them gently away, he was startled to realize the same droplets patterning his own face; she became aware of them and slid closer, raising her head to wipe them away with the soft touch of her lips. His fingers drifted down the pillar of her neck, over the blue-black hollow of her collarbone, to where the tip of her breast stood out firm and sensitive, and she caught her breath audibly as he rolled it under his thumb.

 

“We can take our time,” Vector whispered into the sensitive spot behind her ear. “There is no need to rush.”

 

He was right, of course, as she made a nonsensical noise of agreement. The silent ticking of the unseen clock, lowering the blade slowly over their heads, brought with it an increasing sense of frantic peril; it wasn't logical, Paha thought, although it was understandable, to speed through her actions, trying to cram in as much as possible before the inevitable and inexorable call to duty. Hurrying would only make the time feel like it was passing that much more quickly, and stand as a constant reminder of what the future imminently held, when she wanted nothing more than to lose herself in blissful oblivion with him, if only for a few moments. The Star Cabal had already pushed itself enough into their marriage; damned if she would let it push its way further into their bed!

 

He felt her relax into his hands, letting the tension of desire root out and replace the anxiety of the stressful shape of things to come, and although she entwined her leg over his, opening herself, she did it without the frenzied hopelessness he had sensed in her earlier.

 

“We have eternity,” she murmured into his warmth, “let's use every second of it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The chapter title is from Barry McGuire's classic 1960's anti-war song of the same name. 
> 
> 2\. Garbage chute! Quintessential Star Wars. I liked the nod they did to it in TFA.


	33. Into the Void

Vector had never spacewalked before, and now that he had done it once, he could positively say that he never wanted to do it again. It wasn't the way the sudden loss of the ship's orienting gravity vanished as they passed out of the airlock, causing his stomach to heave in protest, although that was part of it. It wasn't the unnatural feel of the ventilator covering his nose and mouth, keeping him alive at the same time it felt like it was smothering him, or the way each breath hissed in his ear, bringing the unsettling apprehension that the air valve would malfunction on _this_ breath although it had worked perfectly fine for each of the ten breaths prior, although that was part of it, too. It wasn't, either, the fear that seized him as Cipher pushed off from the hull of the _Phantom_ , gliding across the brief black void that separated them from the shell of the Star Chamber, the fear that iced him over as he imagined the thread of her tether snapping, the safety clip shattering, her outstretched hand missing its hold, and her body tumbling away through space, impossible to find or recover, although that was more than a small part of it, too.

 

It was the beauty of it. The terrible, massive, electrifying beauty of the abyss, scattered with stars of the purest light, like lustrous white crystals tumbled over a vast field of ebony velvet, unhindered by atmosphere or the ship or most of the things that ensured his survival. The stars sang, never before so close or so clear to him, their dancing radiance separated from him by just the thin material of the nullgrav suit and the slender shield of duraglass before his eyes. They gleamed so brightly that it seemed he could gather them in his hands, and cup them to his ear to listen, yet they were still so far off, aloof in their glittering chorus. Only in the Chrysalis of Tranquility had he had such a pervading sense of peace, of being part of a greater galactic hymn.

 

But it was dangerous. The allure of its harmonic elegance reached out to him, as though it wanted to draw him in, to entrance him into forgetting the mission and the stress and most of all the danger, and he tore his senses from the sight, focusing on Cipher as she secured the end of her second lifeline to the handle beside the garbage chute door and released the one that anchored her to her ship. With a nudge of his hand, he sent the small satchel bag of tools, floating almost stationary beside him and secured with a cord of its own, sailing slowly across the narrow expanse to where she waited. She caught it deftly, and immediately set about affixing the electromagnetic spanners it carried to the triangle of symmetrical sliding doors of the garbage chute port.

 

Normally, the magnets within the devices would align at the flip of a switch, orienting themselves in opposing positions with their charged fields creating a repelling force sufficient to push the doors apart, but Cipher had been concerned that the abrupt electrical discharge associated with the pulse would trip an alarm, or be noticed on a sensor somewhere within, which meant she had to do it the cautious way - the hard way, by hand. The charge wouldn't be as strong, but it would be less likely to be noticed.

 

Cipher unfolded the rotating lever from each device and began to turn the cranks in a smooth steady motion that grew more difficult as the repellent charges built. Each door required its own spanner, and each spanner had to be charged individually yet as evenly as possible, with the trick of maintaining the equilibrium between the charges increasing in difficulty the more spanners were needed. Three doors on this port, and so three spanners – it could have been worse, Cipher thought as she moved from device to device, counting rotations of the cranks to keep the charges balanced. Vector imagined he heard the small _pop_ sound as the spanners did their job, despite the simple facts of the physics that he knew made sound in space impossible.

 

Bracing the magnetized footplates of her nullgrav suit against the Star Chamber hull, Cipher wedged her fingers between the gap in the doors and heaved her arms apart, knowing that in the weightlessness of space, she had nothing but the spanner and her strength to rely on. She could feel the shuddering of the metal as the doors scraped against their slots, and she wedged her shoulder within to push two of the doors away from her with each of her hands, and the last with her back. She glanced over with a nod, her breath causing little clouds of fog to condense on the interior of her duraglass face shield. Without gravity, the droplets could not drip or flow, but wiggled and wobbled in an absurd manner in response to her breathing or the inertia of the movements of her head.

 

Her nod was the signal for him to jump across the space between the _Phantom_ and the Star Chamber, and he took a long breath, hoping the simple, instinctive act would settle his stomach since the rational argument that he was tethered and perfectly safe was doing little enough to quell his nerves. The refuse port was only a few short meters away, but space was confusing – based on the positioning of the Star Chamber, the _Phantom_ hung upside-down beneath it, meaning that at the same time he was jumping _down_ from the _Phantom_ he was jumping _up_ to the Star Chamber. There was nothing in the surrounding abyss to provide any sense of orientation, and he took care to remember the advice she had given him. _Always look at where you want to go. Your eyes will lead you, the rest of you will follow._

 

 _Always_ , he dizzily repeated to himself, _look at where you want to go._ He locked his eyes on her, then bent his legs and pushed off gently, drifting across the void with his heart in his throat. If he jumped too hard, he would bounce off the hull and careen into open space, with only the unnervingly slender cord of his tether to save him. He was aware that the way he grabbed for and clung to the handle beside the port telegraphed the anxiousness of those few seconds that he had floated free, with all his reliance for stability, life, and his future placed on that thin cable between the hull and his nullgrav suit. She caught his shoulder with her outstretched hand and steadied him, and the sight of her approving look was both an encouragement and a reward. Belatedly, he remembered her other advice – _Don't hold your breath_ – and he rapidly exhaled.

 

Cipher unclipped the small bag of tools from its tether and placed it to hover inside the open chute, then pulled herself up behind it. At about two meters across, the chute was not enormous – not constructed, for example, for industrial levels of waste or debris – but it was more than roomy enough to accommodate them, even side-by-side, should the need arise. She lightly touched the chute wall, scraped with old scratch marks of passing garbage, to turn herself, then activated the magnetic plates in the feet of her nullgrav suit to stabilize herself enough to grab Vector's hand and pull his weightless body easily into the chute behind her.

 

After this, there would be no more tethers. No more lifelines. They removed the cord clips from their belts – Vector again felt a faint wave of panic that he choked down firmly – and started up the garbage chute, the tool bag slung across Cipher's torso opposite her sniper rifle. In null gravity, progress was easy: simply a light push was enough to glide along, and with nothing to hinder momentum, it was just a matter of skimming a hand along the wall to prevent any ricochets. But this didn't last long. Ahead was a second door, and after Cipher took a moment to inspect the circuitry and markings around it, she turned and held up her left hand, palm open and flat, and with her right, waggled her first and second fingers in a pantomime of bipedal movement. Vector nodded. On the other side of this door was gravity.

 

This door was of a different sort than the one on the hull. Where those external doors slid apart, the hinges on this port were obvious – two simple doors that swung towards them. When combined with the gravity that existed in the chamber on the other side, the door, when opened, would simply let the accumulated garbage drop into space by the mere action of inertia. On a busier station, the system would never work – it would clog the space around the station with a cloud of refuse; a garbage scow would need to attach at each port to haul away the rubbish at regular intervals. Here, in the middle of nowhere, on a sparsely-populated facility, a direct dump was a quick and easy system that required no outside contractor to keep the area clear.

 

As she continued her inspection of the door, Cipher signaled Vector again, opening and closing her fingers into loose fists quickly a few times, then shaking her head. Based on their prearranged signals, the door wasn't alarmed, as far as she could tell, and Vector nodded his understanding. There were commlinks in the nullgrav suits, but Cipher had them set to off. There was no knowing if even short-range communications might be picked up by the Star Cabal's monitors, and they needed every possible advantage they could get. The only audio link she permitted them was the encrypted open channel to Keeper, and that was hazardous enough.

 

The station's builders had not installed any particular reinforcements or security measures on this hatch – what reason would they have had to do so? It didn't take much to force the doors open, and Cipher felt the heaviness of gravity drag at her arms as she reached into the tunnel. Progress from here would be an upward climb. She took four electromagnetic piton plates from the bag of tools and handed two to Vector, then pushed the bag behind her and secured the safety straps of the remaining two to her wrists.

 

The piton plates were simple to use – grip the handle and place the plate against a metal wall, then turn the handle a quarter turn to engage the electromagnet, each one strong enough to support two hundred and fifty kilograms. The electromagnetic plates in her nullgrav suit boots were not strong enough to support a climb alone; there was no easy way to engage and disengage a stronger magnet with the feet as the piton plates could be used with the hands. The boots were strong enough, however, to provide some moderate support to alleviate the weight and strain on the arms. That was a mercy and a relief, Cipher decided, glancing down the shaft at all the meters they had laboriously climbed, scaling the sheer metal tube.

 

Sweat dripped from her brow, trickling down her face now that gravity gave it a direction to travel, and the increasing humidity within her helmet made it difficult to see clearly, but she couldn't remove it yet. The existence of artificial gravity did not mean the existence of an artificial atmosphere, and there would be no need to ensure environmental conditions for living creatures in a garbage chute. Craning her head, she could see the tube divided into three tunnels above, and she paused, resting her her arms as she considered her options and running over the memory of the station schematic, minimal as it was, in her mind. The tunnels were numbered, and at least one, she thought, should connect to a cargo bay or a ship hangar; either would do.

 

As she deliberated, Cipher felt the metal of the walls shiver under her feet - the vibrations of metal scratching harshly on metal - and she just barely had time to fling herself flat against the tunnel wall, her eyes to flashing a warning to Vector below her, as a waterfall of detritus vomited out of one of the tubes above. It was a disgusting mix of slop, some of it soggy and oily, spattering over her helmet and shoulders, leaving a residue of slime on her rifle and the satchel of tools, but more dangerous than that were the large fragmented bits of metal – old crates or discarded cables and spars from some work of maintenance – that tumbled out of the tube haphazardly. One piece grazed her helmet and struck her heavily on the shoulder, twisting her hand in the piton plate and switching off the electromagnet, yanking it from the wall and leaving her half dangling, flailing to recover her grip on the device and desperately thankful for the cord that secured it to her aching wrist. It was a long way to fall to the bottom of the refuse shaft, and with the doors jammed open, there was nothing to stop her from falling out into the depthless void, where, if she did not make a successful grab for either the tethers or the _Phantom_ itself, she would drift through the abyss until she slowly suffocated or froze to death.

 

She slapped the piton plate back against the wall and engaged it, and hung there a moment, shaking, before looking back down at Vector. His anxious face peered back at her, and it was not until she realized his worried look had not abated that she noticed the little yellow light that blinked warningly at her from the edge of the face mask of her helmet. She bit back a curse. The integrity of the nullgrav suit hadn't been entirely compromised, but neither was it intact. A long thin spiderweb crack began at the left edge of her vision and extended a few centimeters across the duraglass. She let go of the piton plate long enough to signal to him that she was okay, and ready to go on, then returned her attention to the diverging tunnels above her head.

 

If one chute was actively being emptied, that meant it was likely there were people on the other end of it. She eliminated that one from her options. The second seemed to be angled more towards the interior – not a bad option, but it would be easier to override the doors and allow the _Phantom_ to land if she could work directly within a hangar or cargo bay. That left only one choice. Cipher worked her way around to the tunnel she had selected, and began again the long ascent.

 

Bracing her feet and the piton plates, Cipher cautiously raised the chute cover just enough to allow herself a glimpse of what lay beyond. As she expected, the chute cover lifted easily – after all, who would lock a trash can? – and allowed herself a smile. A hangar bay, and a deserted one, at that. She pushed the cover aside and hoisted herself out, promptly turning to extend her hand to Vector. He let the lid down quietly, and hastily removed his helmet, yanking it off before Cipher, although she had a head start. It had never struck him before of how wonderful a thing it was to breathe free air.

 

“Nice work,” Cipher nodded to him before turning her attention to the cracked helmet.

 

“Yours was better,” Vector said, looking her over with concern. “Is the damage bad?”

 

“Bad enough, but it will hold for now,” she replied with a sigh. “It will get me back to the _Phantom_ , if it has to. But it's a risk.”

 

“Take ours,” Vector offered.

 

“Nonsense,” Cipher answered immediately. “I have nullgrav training, you don't. I will manage. Besides,” she added more brightly as she began to peel off her nullgrav suit, “if we can bring in the _Phantom_ , it will be a moot point anyway.”

 

Vector hid their nullgrav suits and helmets inside an empty crate near the garbage chute as Cipher took a slicing spike from the grubby satchel and got to work at a nearby console. Scorpio had programmed it based on all the information she had been able to pull from her databanks regarding the Star Cabal, the entity that had kept her enslaved for so many interminable years on Belsavis. It didn't aim for anything grandiose or noticeable – simply to sever the monitors, alarms, and consoles of one hangar bay from the Star Chamber's central computers and replace them with innocuous dummy signals, allowing the _Phantom_ to land right under the Cabal's noses. Cipher bit her lip, praying for it to work, while Vector wiped the sludge from her rifle.

 

“Success!” Cipher hissed beneath her breath. With a few taps at the console, the lights ringing the entry to the hangar bay switched from red to green. As the cloaked _Phantom_ had glided in beneath the Star Chamber, they had dropped a handful of minuscule stealth probes about the station to relay a visual-only surveillance feed of the station back to the ship on an ultra low-frequency carrier wave. The holo quality would be terrible, but it only needed indicate that the _Phantom_ was clear to land, and the signal, even if it were detected, would likely be dismissed as some ordinary cosmic background noise.

 

“Gotta hand it to you, agent,” Kaliyo said as she led Temple and Scorpio down the ramp, “You sure know how to pull an op.”

 

“Your celebratory remarks are premature,” Scorpio interjected coldly. “You may all still die.”

 

“I hope you're not going to use this as an excuse to let us die so you can free yourself,” Temple said with suspicion.

 

“I can't,” Scorpio replied shortly. “Aside from the command codes, Cipher Nine and I have... come to an accord. And I admit I look forward to demonstrating to the Star Cabal how much I have learned since I left them.”

 

“The ship is our escape route; it must be kept safe,” Cipher instructed. “Give Vector and I some time to get into position in the interior before you start making any sorties into the outer ring; I don't want any alarm being raised prematurely. Once we hit them, I imagine things will start moving pretty quickly then – take out as many as you can, however you want, so long as the ship is guarded and our escape route is secure.”

 

“So you don't think this is suicide?” Kaliyo asked sardonically.

 

“Not if I can help it, no.”

 

“Crazy bitch.” Kaliyo shook her head, then shrugged her shoulders. “Well, gang, it's been grand. Let's get these bastards, and I'll see you when it's over. If you're not dead. Or if I'm not dead.”

 

“Thanks, Kaliyo,” Cipher said sincerely.

 

“Whatever.”

 

Cipher was the first to admit she was not often an outwardly demonstrative person. The Chiss in general tended more towards reserve, and little in her life had encouraged her to fight that natural trait. But on sheer impulse, she suddenly reached out and put her arms briefly around the Rattataki woman, the asset that she had at first treated with wary disdain long ago in Nem'ro the Hutt's palace, who had gone on to become her first teammate and first friend.

 

“What – I – ” Kaliyo stiffened, then after a second, uncomfortably returned the gesture before they each pulled away. It was, Vector reflected, probably the most awkward hug he had ever witnessed in his life.

 

“You're an ass,” Kaliyo assessed frankly. Hugs felt like goodbyes, and Kaliyo always wanted to say goodbye on her own terms, not anybody else's. And here she was, getting a goodbye hug, with Cipher saying goodbye on _her_ own terms, not Kaliyo's. Damn it all.

 

“I know,” Cipher answered. She took a few steps towards the hangar bay door and waved a deceptively nonchalant hand over her shoulder, saying, “But you should be pretty fired up to give them hell now, though. Plug a few for me, would you?”

 

“Only if you do some for me, too, hey?”

 

\- - - -

 

“Look at that,” Cipher gasped softly. Before them, at the end of the broad hallway they were creeping quietly along, stood an array of banners that flanked the door to the inner enclave of the Star Chamber, where security readouts indicated several people had congregated. The largest banners, hung high, displayed the Imperial cog and the Republic bird, but it was the smaller banners that caused Vector to stare.

 

“The noble houses of Alderaan,” he marveled quietly, “House Alde, House Ulgo, House Organa, Panteer... even House Rist.”

 

“The Mandalorians,” Cipher said, then turning to another. “This one I saw on Corellia. Government district, I think. And that one is familiar, but I can't place it.”

 

“Tatooine,” Vector answered. “We have seen it in diplomatic dossiers on the Republic port of Anchorhead. We suppose that here, they have no fear of showcasing their public allegiances, however much they hide their true loyalty from the broader galaxy. Their duplicity... it's quite amazing, really.”

 

She didn't answer, and he shifted his gaze to her. She stood regarding the flags, seemingly lost in thought. Throughout the mission, her aura had been much like what it once had been: all colors of seriousness and determination, with hues of focused competence and professional steadiness. Anyone who saw her now would not have guessed at the nervous uncertainty that chafed at the tight rein she kept on it. Anyone, that is, who was not Vector.

 

She felt the weight of his eyes on her and she turned her head to meet them. “Voss,” she mumbled, indicating the last banner closest to the door. “Those conniving...”

 

Cipher could feel the anger welling up and bit off her next words. She needed to be calm, to be clear-headed and unhindered by the complications of too many emotions given too much leeway. Vector could scent the sharp and hastened rhythm of her heart as she refastened the muzzle around the anger and guilt and shame she felt over all the Star Cabal had done – to others, as well as to herself, but he didn't call attention to her struggle, sensing that it would not take much to push her the other direction.

 

Instead, he simply gave her a nod. “We are ready.” He took another step, poised to position himself beside the door that divided them from the Cabal's inner sanctum.

 

“Wait a moment,” Cipher said, abruptly grabbing his sleeve. He had only had time to turn to back towards her when she swiftly cupped his face in her capable hands and kissed him soundly.

 

“For luck,” she murmured breathlessly.

 

Vector remembered a conversation from long months earlier, when they had shared nothing but a single kiss, and Intelligence was still intact, and they stood on the bridge of the _Phantom_ , docked on Dromund Kaas. He recalled her response then, and in spite of everything, it still brought a small smile to his face as he repeated it.

 

“Do you think we need it?”

 

“Yes,” she replied promptly. “Every bit of it.”

 

“Then good thing we make our own luck,” he answered, rapidly pulling her close and kissing her again. “We said we were ready, but we were mistaken,” he added a moment later. “ _Now_ we are ready.”

 

For a moment, they didn't move, and he looked into Cipher's eyes – no, at this moment, those were _Paha's_ eyes – and she stared back with equal intensity. All her humiliation and rage were so diminished from this angle, they seemed small and insignificant beneath the glow of her love and trust in him – no, he corrected himself again. Not him. Not just him. _Them_. Her confidence, her bravery, and her strength sprang from what was strung between them, the invisible cord that bound them more tightly and securely than the tethers that acted as their security for their spacewalk. And as it was true for her, so too was it true for him.

 

“Then,” she said, her voice low but no less steady for its softness, “let's finish this.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Chapter title refers to a few things - on the surface, the spacewalk that caused poor Vector so much anxiety, but more fully, their entrance into the Cabal's inner sanctum. As an aside, multiple rock songs share this phrase as a title: Kiss, Nine Inch Nails, and Black Sabbath all have used it.
> 
> 2\. In-game, getting into the Star Chamber is kinda hand-wavy. "Your ship is cloaked, poof, you're there, no problem." It works for an in-game mechanic, but here, I wanted something with a little more meat. It's the most closely-held secret in the galaxy - they're not just going to be able to waltz on in there. It meant bumping some stuff to the next chapter due to length/narrative flow, though. Sorry? (Not really.)
> 
> 3\. One summer in grad school, I earned academic credits for taking Technical Diving, a follow-up to the basic SCUBA class I'd taken the semester before. Technical Diving largely consisted of "hey, you feel like diving today?" "Hell yes; it beats doing actual work." One particularly memorable trip was when three of us went out under a full moon on a perfectly clear July night; for once, the water didn't feel completely freezing. We saw so much more wildlife than during the day. At one point, we took the suggestion of our dive master to kneel on the bottom and turn off our flashlights, then wave our hands to watch the tiny green lights of the phosphorescent algae. There were only a few but we saw them - but other than that, we were in absolute pitch black, and the buoyancy and pressure of the surrounding water made that one of the more disorienting experiences I've ever had. "Don't hold your breath" is cardinal rule #1 of diving; I'd guess it's probably good advice in space, too.
> 
> 4\. Here's the full list of banners on display at the entrance to the Star Chamber's inner rooms, from left to right:  
> a) House Ulgo (Alderaan)  
> b) Tatooine (both Imperial and Republic spaceports, but I don't know if there is a greater significance to it - I assume it is just a planetary flag, and not something associated with a particular force such as a corporation or House Ulgo, etc.)  
> c) House Panteer (Alderaan)  
> d) House Organa (Alderaan)  
> e) Tusken Raiders (Tatooine - this is the little orange banner on the floor)  
> f) Mandalorian Enclave  
> g) Galactic Republic  
> h) Sith Empire  
> i) Voss  
> j) House Rist (Alderaan)  
> k) Corellian Council (There are two other banners associated with Corellia that you can see on that planet - I don't know the particular significance or symbolic/political differences between the three)  
> l) House Alde (Alderaan)  
> m) Ord Mantell Separatist Movement
> 
> Some of those were easily recognizable, some I really had to dig to figure out what they were. I wish all were available as stronghold decorations - I have banners or flags for House Ulgo, House Rist, House Alde, and House Thul in my stronghold, but I would love for the designers to release Panteer and Organa. Actually, I wish that just about all the artifacts and decorations in the Star Chamber were available for player strongholds!
> 
> Interesting, though, that House Thul's crest flag is _not_ on display here. That may mean that Thul has no ties to the Cabal, or that Thul has ties but has refused for their allegiance to be broadcast even here within the Cabal's inner circle, or that the game designers just didn't think of it/didn't have another banner to use to balance the visual - which, actually, could have been done with a banner for Czerka Corporation - but there are no outward advertisements for the presence of any of the major galactic corporate conglomerates, or the Hutt Cartels. With egalitarianism being a major tenet of the Star Cabal (honestly, they are more about equality than the Republic is), it would be logical for the Cabal to demand that all public affiliations be openly displayed together - so does the absence of those acknowledged affiliations mean there is no association between those entities and the Cabal? This is a problematic assumption, considering that in the next in-game scene, a Hutt is visibly present at the Cabal's meeting via holocall. Speculations galore!
> 
> 5\. As I am wrapping up all the plot threads, I'm very much enjoying pulling in references to earlier conversations and revelations. Trying to tie everything together and bring it full circle, so to speak.


	34. Hunter and Hunted

“Not, we admit, what we were expecting,” Vector observed, craning his head. They stood in one of several connected broad galleries, each flanked with displays of the Star Cabal's treasures. Ancient relics, prototype weaponry, curious scientific gadgets, artworks long since lost to the galaxy – every piece a rare and unique artifact, secreted here for generations. His face paled, then flushed as his eye fell on a nearby display; his curiosity got the better of him and his footsteps were muffled in the navy and gold carpet as he moved to inspect it more closely.

 

“What is it?” Cipher asked, a few steps behind.

 

For a moment, Vector didn't answer, then, making an effort, he looked back at her. “The astrolabe of Guthteron Cretz.” Seeing her blank look, he clarified, “He was a philosopher and astronomer who lived over two thousand years ago. His tools and writings were stolen from a Coruscant museum about three hundred years back; it is one of the most famous unsolved robberies of the Republic.”

 

“Looks like we just solved it,” Cipher answered. She surveyed the pedestals of displays that ringed the hall. “For a group that despises Force-users, they certainly have quite a collection of lightsabers here. Jedi and Sith alike.”

 

“It makes sense, in a certain light,” Vector reflected. “All of these were wielded by many of the greatest of their kind. The greatest heroes, or the greatest villains, depending on your perspective. That imbues them with some of the greatest and most uncontrollable power in the galaxy – their symbolism. Symbols, ideas... these are things that are larger than any one person. They can unite the songs of the people into a single chorus more quickly and firmly than discussions and arguments or committees and commanders.”

 

“And if it is given out that they are lost forever...”

 

“For many, it would be like the vanishing of a star.”

 

Suddenly, Cipher held up a silencing hand, and in the stillness, he could hear what her quick ear had already caught. Footsteps, and the indistinct murmur of a voice, perhaps two, in low conversation. The door into the next corridor was open, and Cipher rapidly pressed herself against the wall and slipped quietly along it, just far enough to risk a glance around the edge. Across the corridor another door stood open, and she caught a glimpse of a circular room, with a large round conference table in the middle, surrounded by a number of chairs, some occupied, some empty. The voice she had heard belonged, evidently, to the dark-haired man now entering the conference room, and beside him –

 

Cipher jerked her head back, breathing hard. Hunter. Hunter, who, at the last second as he passed from the corridor to the conference room, had turned around and taken a few steps backwards, as though ensuring that they were not followed or observed. His natural caution? Or had he heard some noise that she had not known she made? Was it just some of his uncanny sixth sense that alerted him? Or had the _Phantom_ been discovered? She held very still until she heard the rumble of the heavy conference room doors closing and the unmistakable click-and-beep of the lock engaging.

 

Vector was beside in her an instant, and in hushed tones, she rapidly related her observations.

 

“Could you override the lock?” he asked.

 

“Yes, but we would lose all element of surprise,” Cipher frowned.

 

“What else did you see in the room? Other than the table and Hunter entering?”

 

Closing her eyes to pull the memory of the brief sight before her mind's eye, Cipher thought hard. “There was an Ithorian already there, waiting for them. At least one other human, or human-like person. The room is tall. Blue carpet and high ceilings, like these galleries. On the other side there was a... ledge of some kind. Or a balcony, perhaps. Maybe for maintenance access?”

 

Her eyes flew open at the realization, and she saw that he had made the same connection, and was already pointing down the gallery to where a bank of ventilation grates pumped manufactured air through the facility.

 

“Then,” Vector declared, “there's our route.”

 

\- - - -

 

Compared to the garbage chute, it wasn't difficult to traverse the ventilation shafts, although the need for absolute silence did create an additional complication. The Cabal's meeting had begun before they finally slipped into place; Vector kneeling beside her as she lay prone on the maintenance balcony above the conference room, but from the sound of it, they hadn't missed much – at least, not anything they hadn't already known.

 

An older Twi'lek woman, participating by life-sized hologram above the large terminal on the table, spoke in tones of sharp disapproval and outrage. “You mean to say you _lost_ Corellia?”

 

With her sniper rifle at the ready, Cipher rapidly scanned the circle, her eyes taking in as much information as they could observe. There was the Ithorian she had seen already, and the humanoid she hadn't been able to clearly see earlier. There was Hunter. Someone who appeared to be dressed in the garb of Alderaanian nobility. A Rakata – that _was_ an interesting development. A Hutt, participating by holo, although apart from the holograms of three additional members who joined the Twi'lek on the main terminal. There were others, but none she could see clearly without risking exposure and discovery.

 

The Alderaanian noble stood, and Cipher flicked a questioning glance up at Vector.

 

“Prince,” he answered, barely more than mouthing the word.

 

“Adjustments are being made,” The Prince said, raising his hands in a reassuring gesture. “Stryver is already working with the Mandalorians.”

 

“See? It's fine,” interjected Hunter. He sounded over-confident, his tone displaying more than his usual arrogance. A cover, Cipher thought, warmed by the thought of her smug enemy for once being the one to squirm. A front over how much he knows he screwed up. She was so intent on the meeting that she nearly jumped when Keeper's voice in her ear broke in.

 

“No holotraps this time,” Keeper said with grim satisfaction. “No distortions. Working to identify the voices.”

 

“Recognize anyone?” Cipher inquired softly. “There's Hunter. The Twi'lek from the recording is here via holo; there must be a way to track her transmission. The one who just spoke is dressed like an Alderaanian prince.”

 

“Tracing hyperwave communications...” Keeper's voice dropped to a low mutter. “I know your tricks...”

 

Keeper was clearly concentrating, and Cipher didn't answer, not wanting to miss a word of the Cabal's meeting. One of the holo participants was speaking, and Cipher wished she could see his face clearly.

 

“You may say it's fine,” he said flatly, “but I won't be comfortable until our targets are laid out for autopsy.”

 

Targets? Cipher considered the word. Herself and her team? The remains of Intelligence? Or something broader – the Jedi, the Sith, the controlling governments of the Empire and Republic alike?

 

“Yem Leksende,” Keeper reported, a quiet triumph in her voice. “Czerka Corporation Special Executive. One!”

 

“Tol Draga, at least, is dead,” claimed one of the humans at the table. “Now we seek balance as the world quakes.”

 

“Sir Trilag of the Mecrosa Order of assassins,” Keeper said. “Two!”

 

“Keep going,” Cipher advised. “The more we know, the better off we'll be. I've got them in my sights.”

 

“We knew we would be vulnerable in this moment,” The Prince reminded the Cabal. “Despite the risk, we invited chaos, knowing we could cleanse the galaxy. Our duty now is to survive, and as our thousand-year journey ends... we will enter a finer age.”

 

Hunter shot to his feet. “Everyone stop.” As the Cabal's lead enforcer, he had the authority to interrupt any meeting, at any time, for whatever reason. Cipher's heart surged into her throat. There was a dangerous tone in Hunter's voice as he added, “There's someone here.”

 

“We think we've been noticed,” Vector quipped as he leaped to his feet. Following Cipher's lead, he shot a grappling hook into the girders overhead and rappelled rapidly down the line, landing beside her on the table with his electrostaff drawn. Hunter had vanished, sheathed within a personal stealth cloak, and Cipher noted the Rakata and a Nautolan fleeing for the doors, but The Prince and Sir Trilag were having no part of that. The Prince had drawn his vibroblade, and Trilag already had his blaster raised, determined to protect himself and his work or die trying. Cipher, rolling neatly over the edge of the massive table to crouch beside the partial cover offered by a chair, set her rifle to her shoulder and steeled herself to fulfill his wishes.

 

No conversations this time. This wasn't like Pashon Cortess or even Neyla Hawkins. She would not give Trilag the opportunity to speak, to defend himself or his actions, to offer any explanation regarding the rightness of his cause – this wasn't, either, like Ardun Kothe. Kothe had had some sense of honor, once. The Star Cabal – these two, Trilag and The Prince – did not. Whatever their goals were on a galactic scale, on a personal level, they had contrived to destroy everything that had given her life purpose and meaning, down to the very core and essence of her being.

 

Rage welled up within her again, and she struggled to control it, reminding herself of the necessity of keeping her emotions checked. They would distract her in ways nothing else could. She steadied her breathing, her shaking muscles, and her rifle and fired again – then again, and again, and she felt she was grinding her teeth together hard enough she risked breaking them, and yet she clenched her jaw tighter and fired again.

 

“Agent.”

 

She heard Vector's voice, although it seemed dim and far away.

 

“Agent.” She heard it again, more insistent this time, and a light touch on the back of her shoulder, followed by his voice once more, low and clear beside her ear. “Paha – He's dead.”

 

She froze for a moment, then slowly uncurled herself from her crouching position to look at where Trilag lay. He lay in a sprawl, with a ghastly dark burn mark crisp and ugly on his chest. Cipher recognized it as the effect of multiple high-powered blaster bolts to the same spot, and she felt bleakly amused that even as she had lost control of herself, sinking into her fury despite all her efforts, her marksmanship had not suffered for it.

 

“Thank you,” she mumbled slowly. He could see the clarity and equilibrium re-establishing itself within her, the balance returning to her song, and he tried to tell himself that the encouragement caused by the speed at which she recovered it was stronger than the worry that she had lost it in the first place. She pressed her lips together between her teeth for moment, then nodded to his unasked question. “I'm okay. I'm okay now. I can keep it together. I will.”

 

There was a choked noise, almost like a laugh, that came from near the floor off to their left. The Prince – dying, but not yet dead, and propped up on one arm.

 

“You're not even one of them,” he said, his tone mixing equal parts marvel and mockery. “They'll always rule you. The Jedi... and the Sith...”

 

The Prince's last breath rattled as it escaped the struggle of his dying body, and Cipher stared at him, slumped over the blue rug.

 

“No, they won't,” she said grimly to the dead. “I've taken orders from each, and I don't plan on doing so ever again.”

 

Vector looked at her in surprise. It was the first he had ever heard her make such a declaration, and there was many a latent meaning beneath it. Death, of course, was the fastest way to freedom, but Cipher had just minutes earlier stated that she had no intention of viewing this as a suicide mission. Cipher's loyalty, like his own, lay with the Empire; he had no apprehension that she was considering defection. The Jedi, she had said to Ardun Kothe, were just as dirty as the Sith. The Republic, for all its vaunted claims of democracy, had just as many chains and leashes as the Empire, and held no lure for her.

 

But Intelligence, he reminded himself, was gone. Intelligence, the entity that valued her and gave her value when so much of the rest of the Empire would not. It gave her a type validation that even he could not: the difference that lay between personal and professional worth. When this was over, what could replace her sense of purpose, the thing that made her skills so useful?

 

Cipher raised her eyes to him. “I won't bow to the Sith or the Jedi again, but that doesn't mean I condone their destruction, either. I mean to find another way – ”

 

She broke off as Keeper chimed in on the comm again. “I've identified several of the holograms. Sending dossiers to the military, Korriban, the bounty hunter guilds... Anyone associated with this meeting is now an enemy of the state. Give me an hour, and I'll have the Republic and Hutt Cartel after them, too.”

 

“Good start,” Cipher replied. “But you said 'several' of the holograms – not all.”

 

“Not every face was in our databanks,” Keeper admitted, “but we'll keep working on it. The Star Cabal keeps their secrets aboard that station. If we want to finish this, we need to know – ”

 

The commlink squealed harshly, and with a small gasp of pained surprise, Cipher yanked it from her ear, wincing.

 

“That,” snapped Hunter, dropping his stealth cloak before her, “was your signal being jammed. Talk to your brain-dead friends later.”

 

A lightning bolt of anger and disgust shot through Cipher, so severe that for a fraction of a second, Vector was seized with the fear that it would shatter her. She had been through so much, and now here stood the man who had been the cause of it all. The man who was responsible for everything that had so nearly ripped her apart, and who had made Vector a witness to all of it. But apart from the rapid rhythm of her heartbeat, awash in the scent of adrenaline, she was calm. Strikingly calm, lethally calm. He felt strangely proud of her, his admiration for her illimitable and luminous.

 

“I've been waiting to face you,” Cipher said coldly, with exaggerated civility. “Hunter. In the flesh at last.”

 

“I said goodbye on Corellia,” Hunter replied scornfully. “I don't intend to say it again. So let's get one thing clear: Killing the inner circle doesn't get you a free pass to our files. You want to really know what we're like? You want the keys to the galaxy? Come take them!”

 

Hunter spun on his heel as he flipped the switch that re-engaged the stealth cloak about him, and his running form faded from sight before he had gone two paces. Cipher resisted the impulse to take a hasty step after him.

 

“We are surprised you didn't try to shoot him immediately,” Vector observed thoughtfully.

 

“I was tempted,” Cipher confessed. “But did you notice? His hand was on the stealth switch the whole time. He would have disappeared before I could have taken aim. And where can he go now?”

 

Composed, observant, self-possessed – this was something like her old self; she felt it, and she knew he could see it in her. This was who she was, and she would go into their final fight as nothing else but that.

 

“We did not see that, but we did note something else,” Vector replied. “For all his bravado, Hunter is frightened. Now that we have seen him in person, instead of over a holo, we can smell his fear.”

 

“Running scared, and likely to make mistake. But he isn't stupid. Obviously, he wants us to chase him. He's going to put himself where he is the most comfortable, where he thinks he can have the greatest advantage, for the final confrontation. Or somewhere he can catch us by surprise; trick us,” Cipher said, her lip curling. She stopped short, looking at Vector with a keen gaze as realization struck her. “Then... _you_...”

 

“Yes. We can track him. We can hear the song of his terror. Norepinephrine streams from him in fog and snakes, and we can follow.”

 

“Brilliant. More than brilliant,” Cipher breathed. “I could kiss you.”

 

“We'll hold you to that,” he answered with satisfaction, “when we're out of this.” The doors to the conference room all stood open, and he gestured towards one. “Hunter went that way. And left. Are you ready?”

 

“Yes. But be careful. We can afford to be wary now at the expense of time.” Under Vector's direction, she began to head slowly down the maze of interconnected hallways and galleries, through the illicit collections of the Star Cabal.

 

“Would you like another example of Chenuh?” asked Cipher a moment later.

 

“Another sample for our book?” Vector replied. “Turn right.”

 

“Not exactly, unless you're looking to expand beyond profanities. Just an idiom,” Cipher answered. She recited an oddly musical phrase, then translated. “It means ‘Aim true at the aristocra.' A leftover from ages past, when our wars were all self-contained within our people, and eliminating the opposing commander was essential for victory. The practice was eventually dropped as barbaric, but the phrase remains. It's been in my head all day. This is it. Our only chance.” She paused and took a breath, looking aside at him with fiery coals smoldering in the fathoms of her scarlet eyes.

 

“Aim true,” she murmured, almost to herself, “or don't aim at all.”

 

“Here,” Vector paused beside a wall panel. “Hunter stood here a moment. And then – that door. Be cautious.”

 

Sound advice, considering that the floor on the other side of the door was arrayed with pressure plates supporting an electrolaser grid. Bluish force fields indicating pockets of safe terrain flickered off and on over the laser grid, which needed no warning sign to indicate its deadly danger.

 

“We guess this is why Hunter stopped at the panel. To temporarily activate a safe way across,” Vector surmised. As Cipher didn't answer, he said nothing more; her attention was riveted to the red lasers and the blinking force fields. She raised her head at last.

 

“They're not random. The force fields,” she stated decidedly. “It's subtle, but there's a pattern to them. Follow me, exactly as I step.”

 

Her confidence was strong; his trust in her absolute. It was not misplaced – in truth, he had more apprehension about his own ability to follow precisely than her ability to lead. She guided them across unerringly to the open door on the far side, and Hunter's disembodied voice called out to them.

 

“Why couldn't you just die? It would've been easy.”

 

“I could ask the same of him,” Cipher snipped. “Perhaps I will.” She put her head to one side as she saw a curious look on Vector's face. “What is it?”

 

“We're not sure,” he admitted. “We keep getting flashes of... something odd. Something about Hunter we can't figure out.” He shook his head as he fell into step beside her. “It's not important – probably.”

 

“Maybe,” Cipher said, leading them along the corridor, “Maybe not. Keep it in mind – it might give us an advantage. If you notice – oh, great.”

 

The gallery ahead of them was criss-crossed with a number of shifting anti-personnel beams, but again, Cipher watched until she was certain there was a way to slip between them. It was just a matter of timing. At the other end of the corridor, Vector lightly touched her shoulder and nodded at the door.

 

“He's there,” Vector whispered. “Or has been, within the last few minutes.”

 

Beyond the door the blue carpeting and a flight of stairs led to a central raised dais, circular and four steps high, and Hunter stood on the top step, his arms folded, his chin lifted and emphasizing the disdainful scowl on his face.

 

“No way out anymore. I dreamed about this. You and me tearing each other apart!” Hunter sneered, seething rage erupting in the tone of his voice. Oh, how the tables had turned! Hunter, victim to his own emotions, seeing himself poised on the verge of losing everything, and Cipher twisting her lips in a mocking smile, cool and superior and self-assured. “Who,” demanded Hunter, “would've figured an Imperial Cipher could threaten us?”

 

“If it surprises you,” Cipher answered sweetly, “then clearly, you never learned anything about me in all our time together. I'm hurt, really – here I thought you actually cared. You underestimated me, Hunter. Now tell me where do I find your comrades' names?”

 

Hunter gestured over his shoulder, much to Cipher's astonishment, although she kept it hidden. “The Black Codex, back there – everything we are, in one digital box. But you know I can't just give it to you.” He shook his head ruefully, his voice genuinely aggrieved. “Why did you have to be Imperial? You would have fit right in – we could have been partners!”

 

“No, we couldn't,” Cipher replied quietly, raising her rifle. She had heard enough. “It's a little late to try to recruit me. Your behavior, your methods, you yourself – all are anathema to me. You yourself assured that I would destroy you.”

 

“Well,” Hunter growled, drawing his blaster pistols, “you can try.”

 

Of any fight Cipher had ever been in, this one was by far the most fierce and the most critical, although she felt herself cool and controlled as they exchanged ferocious volleys of energy bolts. She made an inadvertent noise as a blast caught her in the arm, knocking her off-balance and allowing a second to strike her in the ribs. There was a brown and black blur that swept across her vision as Vector darted in before her, leveling a sweeping blow of his electrostaff at Hunter and driving him back furiously.

 

Rolling behind the cover offered by a pillar to gain a better position, Cipher flung a tiny flash-bang in Hunter's face, and Vector took brutal advantage of his wild, blinded flailing, striking him ruthlessly. His breath rasped sharply in his chest – not only because of the exertion, or the viciousness of the fight, but because, too, of the thought of what Hunter had commanded be done to Paha. This was the man responsible for all of it. Whatever he got, he deserved. Faced with the same struggle now, Vector appreciated the effort it took for Paha to conquer the frenzy of her anger.

 

Cipher took careful aim, patient for her opening. Hunter lashed out in frantic bludgeoning motions with the butt of his pistols, opening himself to attack as he struck out at Vector, who jerked away. There was her chance. _Aim true at the aristocra_  , she recited to herself as she took a slow, steadying breath, _or don't aim at all._

 

Her finger tightened smoothly, meticulously, against the trigger of her rifle; she felt the pulse of the bolt as it coursed from the barrel, the almost imperceptible tremor of the weapon, shuddering out death at her command. With a cry, Hunter crumpled to his knees.

 

_Aim true at the aristocra – or don't aim at all._

 

Cipher jumped to her feet, darting forward, her gaze reaching first for Vector, who met it steadily. They had each taken a few hits, but the damage, they assured each other with a glance, was minor. Hunter, on his knees and clutching his wounds painfully, appeared to be rather worse. But appearances could be deceiving, and Cipher had learned to be cautious: Hunter was the sort to lie like a viper in the sand, to strike with envenomed fangs even on the threshold of death purely for the sadistic joy of knowing he did not cross over alone. She leveled her blaster pistol at his head without hesitation.

 

“He isn't gone,” Vector observed, “but he will be soon.”

 

Hunter raised his eyes, attempting a feeble smile, and the words that dropped from his lips nearly made Cipher's heart stop.

 

“It's your responsibility now,” he panted, wincing at the pain of his injuries. “Everything we built, everything we hid from you... you're the only one like us left. You'll take good care of it. But... between you and me... I want to show you one last thing.”

 

 _The Voss prophecy._ For a long time, Cipher made no answer other than the hiss of her breath moving rapidly in her chest. How she had looked forward to this moment! This moment of victory, with Hunter at her mercy, kneeling before her in pain and subjugation. She shouldn't let him talk. She should end him now, before he had one last chance to make trouble – to humiliate her, to shame her, to gloat over her in his superiority that some part of her feared he still had over her, and would always have over her. She should end him now, while she knew she still had control over the situation. While she knew she still had control over herself. Her finger tightened against the trigger of the pistol and froze.

 

“One... last... thing,” she said finally, very slowly. “You have my attention.”

 

“I was trained by the best. Killers, slicers – I even went to Tatooine to see the Old Man,” Hunter said, for once without the usual tone of braggadocio. His appearance sparked and convulsed, then shattered, revealing a face somewhat more rounded, with smooth feminine cheekbones and a physique entirely that of a woman. Stripping away the holographic mask also dropped the disguise from Hunter's voice.

 

“I haven't shown anyone my real face in a long time,” she confessed.

 

Cipher's surprise was keen-edged, but she hid it. This, she thought, must have been what Vector had detected, but couldn't resolve. Of course a woman's scent would differ from a man's, and most of the time, scent was hardly a concern to be disguised. Most humanoid races simply couldn't tell.

 

“Hunter wasn't only a cover for the SIS,” Cipher said shrewdly. The blaster wavered in her hand, and she lowered it slightly. “You fooled the Star Cabal, too.”

 

“No,” Hunter confessed. “But so long as I was good, they didn't care how I looked.”

 

“Then why the elaborate disguise? The games with your face and your name and whoever you were?” Cipher demanded suspiciously, raising her pistol again.

 

“I was a little girl when they found me. They erased my name, my planet... Eventually, it's easier to just make up someone new, to be someone else entirely. And then you came along,” Hunter confessed, her weary voice growing bitter. “You kept your face when you became Cipher Nine. You did what I couldn't do. Or wouldn't do. And I was so jealous... but we had fun, didn't we?”

 

The furious acrimony bubbled up in Cipher's breast again, choking her with its weight and burning heat. “Fun,” she repeated, her voice low and lethal. “You tried to kill me repeatedly. I endured brainwashing and torture at your hands.” Her face twisted and her hand tightened again around the pistol. “Not what I call fun.”

 

Hunter made a mirthless sound that was nonetheless a laugh. “You're a liar. You like it all, don't you? Hunter and Cipher Nine... they're the tough ones. They play the game right. Until one of us didn't. Until I didn't. I have to admit, you're better than me.”

 

The pistol in Cipher's hand was shaking; Vector could see her shivering from the depths of her soul to the very fringes of her aura, growing frayed and frail before his eyes. She was losing her struggle against the deluge of emotion flooding up within her, but she was valiantly working to hold her own. She swallowed hard.

 

“You,” she told her dying foe, “were the best enemy I could ask for.”

 

Something like a smile tugged at Hunter's lips. “Goodbye,” she murmured. “Don't ever let them stop you.”

 

Her finger moved then, a subtle motion on her gauntlet, before Cipher had the chance to overcome her hesitation and indecision – those fatal traits she so despised. A high-voltage electrical jolt crackled over Hunter's skin, and she jerked grotesquely as the current overwhelmed the last vestiges of her life.

 

Cipher made no motion. She stood frozen, her arm outstretched with the pistol still clenched in her trembling grasp and her breast rising sharply as though her every breath stabbed her acutely. The twisted, pained expression on her face deepened, knitting her brow and curling her lips. The control was cracking, and, jamming the pistol back into the holster at her side, she abruptly turned from the sight of Hunter's body and threw herself down on the top step of the dais some meters away, slinging her rifle across her knees.

 

After a moment, Vector softly slipped down on the step beside her, privately thinking that perhaps it would be best now if she gave up the fight and let the facade crumble, to let herself have the sort of emotional release she had given vent to when they had earned their victory on Quesh. This had been a terrible success, at least as hard on her as Quesh had been, and it certainly had been harder on him – on Quesh, he had fought in ignorance. Here, he had his own motivations, and full knowledge of what, and who, he fought for. He sat close beside her and waited.

 

“I don't understand,” she said finally, her wondering voice drawn and weary. “I don't understand. All along, I have wanted to kill him. I swore to kill him; I planned to shoot him in the head and be glad of it. I wanted him to suffer, and I wanted to see him suffer, and laugh that it was up to me to choose when that suffering would end, and then I was going to kill him."

 

She broke off, but he stayed silent, sensing she hadn't finished, and some several seconds later, she proved him correct.  

 

"So why?” she asked. Paha turned her head to look at Vector at last, and his heart ached at the expression on her face. “Why didn't I do it? Why couldn't I do it? What's wrong with me?”

 

For a moment, Vector considered his answer, then tugged off his glove in order to tenderly smooth back the sweat-dampened strands of hair from her face with warm, bare fingers. She looked lost and bewildered, hopeless in the face of what she saw as her failure to keep the promise she had made herself despite all her resolution and bravery. But he knew what she did not yet understand: she hadn't failed at all.

 

“Nothing,” he replied. “Nothing at all is wrong with you. But we think – we can guess... what stayed you.”

 

She shook her head at him mutely, and he laid his hand over hers. “More than once,” he began mildly, “you have told us that you think it better to _know_ – no matter what the information is, be it good or bad. The key that unlocks every closed door, the light that illuminates every hidden thing – it's the knowing. Ignorance is what gives others the chance to control you. Or control us, as we know Protean did.

 

“If you,” he continued, “had executed Hunter before he – before _she_ – had had the opportunity to have her say, you would have spent the rest of your life wondering about her.  Tormented with the question what would have been the last words of her final song, had she been allowed to sing them. And in that, she would have still had some control over you even after her death. Now, no ghost of hers will ever haunt you. She will never again appear in your dreams. She will never control you. You can leave her to her rest, as she must now leave you.”

 

There was the tang of salt seeping through the reopened cracks in Paha's aura, just as the tears now coursed unchecked down her cheeks. Vector slid his arm around her, pulling her close against his chest as she lost her ability to keep her sobs at bay, the stress and the relief overwhelming her. He pressed his lips tenderly into the top of her head.

 

“In short,” he concluded, “your need to know was stronger than your desire for revenge. And now – because of it - you are free.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I want, like, all the Star Cabal treasures as decor for my strongholds. I love the statues from Corellia, too, and wish they would be made available!
> 
> 2\. I find action scenes - particularly fights - tough to write, and sometimes dull to read, so I usually gloss over them as much as possible.


	35. The Black Codex

“Well, then,” Cipher said some several minutes later as she surveyed the computer console at the center of the dais. Her eyes flicked briefly over Hunter's body, still and cooling on the floor, as if yet suspicious that this was just one more of her tricks, but her hands were steady as she touched the console. “I suppose we had better see what secrets the Cabal has to share with us.”

 

“Black Codex access detected. Scanning,” intoned the mechanical and vaguely masculine voice of the computer. The Black Codex was a dark, cuboid datacron, etched over with arcane markings and suspended in a small pillar of light – a finely-tuned tractor beam, perhaps – just behind the console. “Identity confirmed. Star Cabal databanks intact.”

 

“A thousand years of data looks very small,” Vector observed over Cipher's shoulder. “Surprisingly so, when stored like this.”

 

A shift in the air alerted him, his senses catching the rhythm of strange footsteps and the presence of additional auras unfamiliar to him. “Agent,” he warned, low and cautious in her ear, and as she raised her head and turned, her gaze fell on two Sith lords just mounting to the top of the broad staircase behind her. She looked at them coolly, and did not move.

 

“Honored agent,” one of them began, 'I am Lord Ilikith. This is Lord Charnoq. The Dark Council learned of your predicament and sent us to join you. We regret that we were detained.”

 

There was a moment of silence, which Cipher was the first to break. “I'm honored,” she said dryly, sounding anything but. Calmed by Vector's patient understanding, bolstered by his insight, and strengthened by the outlet her fevered emotions had in her burst of tears, her aura now swirled about her in a cloak of caution and suspicion, accompanied by no small measure of competent self-confidence.

 

“Now,” she surmised with deceptive nonchalance, ostensibly addressing Vector, but loud enough to be easily heard by the Sith lords standing some six or seven meters away, “correct me if I'm wrong, but I seem to recall Hunter there,” – she gestured to the body on the floor with an off-hand wave – “jamming the communications signals around this station. Which, I admit, makes for a very good reason as to why we weren't alerted to our friends the Sith joining this little party. But what it _doesn't_ explain is why the Dark Council has taken so sudden an interest in the activities of a division they demanded dissolved – or how they knew about either this station or this operation in the first place. I find those both to be _very_ interesting questions.”

 

“We presume they likely have interesting answers, as well, agent,” Vector agreed, taking his cue from her easily. He unexpectedly found himself biting the corners of his lips to quell a bizarre impulse to smile. Cipher had the upper hand, and she knew it. Nothing could touch her.

 

“The balance changes,” Lord Charnoq replied, attempting to sound authoritative. “Knowledge spreads.”

 

“Cute,” Cipher answered blandly. “And meaningless.”

 

Lord Ilikith approached, with Charnoq close at his heels. “We know the Minister of Intelligence is operating without authorization. He will face judgment, but you have served the Empire.”

 

“At his request,” Cipher replied. “And his command. Consider that, when you consider I have served the Empire.”

 

No matter how much he might scrutinize it, no matter how much he might analyze it, Vector was certain that until his dying day, he would never fully have a handle on the mountain of nuances that colored the relationship between Paha and her superiors – really, he reflected, perhaps the only two people in the galaxy who she permitted to exercise control over her. Unless he counted himself among that number, but he balked at the idea. Respect, certainly, influence, possibly – but control? No, he would forever shrink from the notion of deliberately trying to control her. He might sooner try to control the wheeling of the stars overhead or catch the wild winds in his fingers. Some things - things of powerful grace, of dynamic beauty, things that were forces of nature - defied control. Minister and Keeper, on the other hand, had no such qualms, to the extent that they had both abominably abused the power that rested in their hands – the power that Paha had granted them, even – and yet, despite what they had done to her, despite what she knew she had suffered because of them, she still showed them this loyalty.

 

It was, perhaps, a matter of trust. That she knew Minister and Keeper could each be trusted to put the needs of the Empire above their own personal ambitions and goals, and that they would not waste their agents on the petty and and pointless squabbles of the Dark Council and the lesser Sith lords. That she would accept the abuse she had suffered through their exploitation because behind it, there were good reasons for it. Perhaps it was that there would always be a demand on her loyalty, and so long as she could be loyal to Keeper and the Minister and what remained of Intelligence, she would never have to declare loyalty to the Sith lords she scorned. The necessity of Intelligence's cold brutality made for a strange bedfellow, but it was better than subservience to the Sith, to be sure.

 

Lord Ilikith seemed uninterested in Cipher's defense of the Minister. “We are told that this conspiracy accumulated many secrets. Turn over their data record, and we will deliver it to the Dark Council, so that it may enhance our glory.”

 

“'Enhance your glory,'” Cipher repeated, calm and deeply skeptical. As far as she was concerned, her possession of the Black Codex, and permission to access its secrets, was one of the few things currently keeping her alive. Once that cube of secrets touched Sith hands, her life, and Vector's, were as good as forfeit. They would have no share in the glory Ilikith and Charnoq coveted. They would not even be mentioned in their report to the Dark Council. And they would not take no for an answer. “And suppose I refuse? What then?”

 

“ _You_ serve the Sith,” Lord Charnoq snapped harshly.

 

Ilikith held back his volatile companion with a mollifying hand and infused his voice with fabricated patience as he replied. “Perhaps you have forgotten your place. The value of what you've discovered is for _us_ to determine.”

 

 _Safe hands_ , the Minister had said. What hands would be safer than her own? The Sith and the Dark Council certainly couldn't be trusted with it.

 

“How fortunate I have just made myself a promise regarding obedience to the Sith,” Cipher answered. Charnoq smiled and Ilikith visibly expanded with his inhalation of smug satisfaction. She fixed her eye on him, the better to watch him deflate as she finished her answer.

 

“I haven't forgotten my place at all, Lord Ilikith. It's right here.” Her voice dropped to dark and dangerous octaves. “Between the Dark Council and the Black Codex. You aren't laying a finger on it.”

 

Charnoq hissed beneath his breath, and the sound was taken up in a louder hum as he ignited the deadly red blade of the lightsaber he held in his hand. Ilikith was staring at her in something like disbelief. “I thought you would be more reasonable. But I can guess who is to blame for your disloyalty.” He drew his lightsaber. “You and the Minister alike will receive a traitor's death. So be it.”

 

Cipher wondered later if the Dark Council had, perhaps, lost their minds, or at least their memories, when they had sent Charnoq and Ilikith. As a much less experienced agent, she had defeated one of the best of the Council. Did they really think that two of their underlings, not even laying claim to the title of Darth, would be a serious match for her? Or was this yet another example of the the Dark Council, the Sith, and humans disdaining the skills and talent of a mere alien? _Then let them underestimate me!_ she thought fiercely, emptying a barrage of blaster bolts into Charnoq's side, precisely between the gap in his armor to the unprotected space below his ribs. _Let them make my battles all the easier._

 

“We doubt the Dark Council will be pleased,” Vector commented. The bodies of the Sith lords were motionless on the floor.

 

“I won't tell them if you won't,” Cipher shrugged easily. “For all they know, the Sith's ship was blown up in a surprise attack by the Republic, and the Black Codex is lost forever.” She stepped up to the central console and, balancing one knee against the rim of the tractor beam emitter, leaned with outstretched hands to retrieve the Codex.

 

“How regrettable,” Vector answered, close beside her and steadying her with his hands about her waist. “Such an unpredictable region of space.”

 

She looked back at him with a pert smile and an arched eyebrow. “I thought so, too. Very unfortunate. I'll mention it to the Minister of Intelligence. He may wish to send his condolences.”

 

With the black cube tightly in her grasp he helped her down, his arms around her a few seconds longer than necessary, and her smile broadened and deepened, its candor and honesty spreading throughout her aura like a slowly blossoming flame. “I don't know about you,” she said, her lips bare centimeters from his own, “but I am more than ready to get out of here.”

 

“Mm,” Vector agreed. Some part of him – and not a small part, either – had not yet fully come to terms with the idea of what they had achieved. They had won. They had walked straight into the mouth of hell and beaten down the demons that had dwelt there, and closed the door behind them to the next devils who had tried to take up residence. What did a person do with that? Or after? The memory of her half-promised planet of their own, and his vowed intention to take her somewhere restful, bubbled into his foremost thoughts, and he again bit back a smile. “We're sure the Minister would like to see what is in that box. We shouldn't keep him waiting.”

 

“Or us,” she grinned.

 

Kaliyo, Temple, and Scorpio were standing watch, not altogether patiently, at the ramp to the _Phantom_ in the hangar bay. As she entered, Cipher glanced at a handful of bodies, hired defenders of the Star Chamber, scattered about in positions behind crates that had been used as cover. One area was particularly messy, with mangled cargo indistinguishable from what appeared to be charred remains.

 

“I suppose that has to be Kaliyo's work,” she called out.

 

“Like it's _my_ fault some men just can't hold their thermal detonators?” Kaliyo hollered back. She smirked as Cipher and Vector came to a stop before her. “Look at you two, strolling in like you owned the place. I take it that means that yeah, you really do own the place?”

 

“Pretty much.”

 

“Can we loot it? Based on what we saw on the outer ring, there's enough junk here to keep us in cash for the rest of our lives. There's a lot of people will pay good credits for this crap.”

 

“Not this time, Kaliyo. Sorry.” Cipher had teasingly offered Vector the pilfered astrolabe as they passed through the gallery, and he had such a struggle to resist it that she felt guilty for it. No doubt other remnants of Intelligence would come aboard to catalog everything, enriching the museums of Dromund Kaas with what artifacts might be considered beneficial to the morale of the people, and burying the rest in secret vaults, as lost to time as if they had been destroyed. Kaliyo's suggestion might warrant some serious consideration after all.

 

“Can't blame a girl for trying. We done here?”

 

“We're done.”

 

\- - - -

 

The Minister of Intelligence, Keeper, and the meager ranks of Intelligence were formally arrayed in the hangar bay of the _Tenebrous_ as the _Phantom_ glided in and Cipher cut the engines. Vector peered out the windshield of the bridge at the assembly.

 

“It seems word of our victory precedes us,” he said lightly. “Or they expect we're all dead and the _Phantom_ has been commandeered by the Star Cabal and they intend to make their last stand here.”

 

Cipher laughed, a carefree and weightless sound that Vector realized he had been dearly missing, and he reached out to take her hand, warm and soft and strong within his own. He pulled her out of the captain's chair, drawing her close and slipping his arms around her, feeling the touch of her hands on his chest and the shape of her figure in his embrace, and he restrained the urge to do more than merely kiss her. On her lips he could taste how quickly the rhythm of her heart leaped ahead of itself, and she made a little sound of pouting disappointment as he raised his head from hers.

 

“Let's go collect our accolades,” he murmured, “and once all the official business is concluded, we will be at liberty to celebrate on our own.”

 

She made no answer other than a coy smile and a slow blink, a smoldering glance that nearly made him curse himself for his suggestion and haul her bodily into their room; everyone outside could simply damn well just wait – he paused a moment, leafing through his memory as he stood back to let Cipher leave the bridge first. The last time she had blinked at him like that she had been face down on the grates of a nameless barge on Corellia, with her self-respect and her bravery being ground out of her under the heel of a thug now dead and rotting by Vector's own hand. She had won it all back. Her confidence, her judgment, her self-possession, and her command – all of it was hers again. He had been right: they could never have that control over her.

 

“Keeper, Minister,” Cipher nodded to her superiors as she emerged from her ship and drew level with them, her team, from Kaliyo to Scorpio, in her wake.

 

Keeper greeted her with her usual professionalism. “Cipher, I was able to monitor your life signs after we lost contact. I'm glad you're still alive.” Keeper paused, ever so briefly, and there was the barest hint of some enigmatic emotional tic buried in her voice as she added, “and I'm glad you won.”

 

“Mission accomplished,” Cipher replied phlegmatically. “Hunter is dead, and the inner circle is broken. The Star Cabal has been decimated. All in a day's work, eh, Keeper?”

 

“One last victory for Imperial Intelligence, at least,” Keeper answered. The lines around her eyes tightened, a crease forming between her dark eyebrows. Even more than Cipher, Keeper's life had been dedicated to and defined by her role in Intelligence, past the marrow of her bones, into the very genetic code of her being. From even before birth, she had been destined for this life; she had been quite literally bred to it. The control Intelligence exerted over her was even more strict and more pervasive than what it held over Cipher, even when she had been subjected to the brainwashing. So much of Keeper's identity was indistinguishable from her role that, Cipher realized with a sudden flash of intuition, for Keeper, losing Intelligence must be like losing an arm or half her face. Small wonder there was sorrow in her voice, although Keeper would drink poison before shedding a tear in public. Feeling generous, Cipher offered her a way out.

 

“As the fighting wrapped up,” she said matter-of-factly, “a group of Sith decided to welcome themselves aboard. Any ideas on that? Did you expect their arrival?”

 

Keeper's lips curled ever so faintly in a sliver of annoyance. “The Dark Council contacted their ship nearest our location and sent them to investigate after I broadcast our target list. They refused to hold position.”

 

“Typical,” Cipher huffed.

 

“Celebrations and postmortems alike can wait,” the Minister of Intelligence interrupted at this point. “Keeper, I need you with the technical team. Cipher, with me, please.”

 

Cipher gave her team a glance to await her return and followed the Minister of Intelligence to the conference room. The last time she had been here, she had had major doubts as to whether she would ever see it again. Something about the Minister's demeanor now gave her a bit of the same uncertain feeling.

 

“Congratulations _are_ due,” the Minister said quickly, wasting no time, “but if we're going to track and eliminate the surviving conspirators, I need their secrets. Give the data to me, please.”

 

“I have it,” Cipher admitted, her hand resting protectively on the satchel slung across her chest. “Although you should know that the Sith the Dark Council sent wanted it, too, and they weren't exactly thrilled when I unequivocally denied them. I left them a bit too dead to lodge a formal complaint with the Dark Council, but... it is a situation that will require some handling. If we still have the resources. I know we're stretched rather thin.”

 

“We are, but we do,” Minister replied. “The data –”

 

“Tell me, Minister,” Cipher interrupted. “What are you really after? Why do you really want the Black Codex?”

 

The Minister of Intelligence gauged her warily. He was aware of what she had been through; aware of what she had suffered at his hands, and at his command. And yet she had still stood firmly against the demands of the Dark Council; he did not doubt her assertion. But why? For Intelligence, that had ground her between its millstones? For him, who had ordered her deprived of her most basic rights? For herself? Or for other reasons? For once in their conversations, it was the Minister who found himself searching for hidden meanings in the layers of their words.

 

“So for once in my life,” he said at last, “I can do the right thing.”

 

“I did the right thing by keeping the Black Codex out of the hands of the Sith and out of the hands of the Republic,” Cipher replied. “And now I need to know why I should not keep it out of _your_ hands, as well. Sir.”

 

“You've grown very bold over these your last few missions, Cipher,” Minister observed neutrally. There might have been something like respect for it in his tone. Cipher couldn't be sure. He took a short, sharp breath. “Despite all their evils, the Star Cabal did something remarkable. They stayed invisible for centuries, operating independent of the great powers. In my career,” he snipped, his voice shadowing with acridity, “I can hardly scratch my nose without being stymied by a Dark Lord.”

 

The corners of Cipher's mouth twitched. “You once cautioned me against expressing dangerous sentiments too openly, sir,” she replied. “With due respect, some people might interpret that the wrong way.”

 

“I hardly think I need to fear your disagreement,” countered Minister. “You've made your opinion on the Sith clear, to me, at any rate. There was more than one reason I worked to ensure that _you_ would be one who survived the purge.” The Minister turned away briefly, then looked back at her, his eyes boring intensely into her own. “Let me be perfectly clear: The lives I've destroyed, the atrocities I've approved – all of it was to make the Empire a better place. I failed.”

 

 _The lives I've destroyed._ Was he including hers among that tally? She had been wounded, she had been beaten, she had been exploited and humiliated and stripped of so much, so very very much – but she had not been destroyed. She stood before him on her own two feet with her head held high.

 

“I would not discount your efforts against the Star Cabal,” she replied. “If our work did not make the Empire a better place, we can at least flatter ourselves that we didn't allow it to be a worse one – or to not exist at all.”

 

“The status quo?” Minister said wryly. “Not for us. Not for Intelligence. Not for you, or me, or Keeper. No, it's not your job to make me feel better about my failures.”

 

“Perhaps not,” Cipher replied, somewhat pithily. “But it isn't my job to listen to you wallow in them, either.”

 

“Shakes your confidence in me, does it?” The Minister's lip curled in self-mockery. “Maybe that is why I now turn to you, and to the Black Codex. Imperial Intelligence is not being rebuilt. Oh, the Sith have made some noise about some operation division of their own, something they will exert complete control over, including every agent who they bring into the ranks. The Sith and the military have wanted our resources for years – now that we belong to them, things will change. You'll hear about it, I'm sure. And I am equally sure that you, like me, will want no part of it. You need to escape while you have the chance.”

 

“You are aware that Hunter was blowing my cover at will,” Cipher pointed out. “It's a large galaxy, but Hunter contrived to make it quite a bit smaller, where I am concerned.”

 

“I know you have more imagination than that,” Minister answered, leveling his gaze at her. Cipher was somewhat startled at the clarity of his blue eyes, flecked faintly with green at the center. She had always been too focused on his words and his attitude, digging for hidden meanings, to pay close attention to their limpid color. Or maybe it was that he had always kept them as shrouded in mystery as his language.

 

“The conspirators erased themselves from history,” he continued. “The Black Codex can help you go dark; destroy all records of your identity. You would answer to no one – not a new 'Sith Intelligence,' not superior officers...”

 

“Not even you, sir?” Cipher asked pointedly. “You were always one for the long game. When did you start planning something like this?”

 

“Since long before I realized our days were numbered. You would serve the Empire as a free agent.” A small smirk played over the Minister's lips. “You could even get the opportunity to exercise that conscience of yours.”

 

Cipher regarded him with a careful shrewdness. “I've guessed for some time now that your options have been growing limited,” she said. “And now your final gambit is to help me escape. So what about you and the others? Keeper?”

 

The small, sharp sigh that the Minister made before he answered betrayed him more than he expected. “With luck, I may retire gracefully; without, I expect to be hanged. But the others won't be blamed for my mistakes.”

 

“That's both brave and gracious of you, sir.” Cipher inclined her head respectfully. “I know they'll appreciate it. I certainly will. You, and your successes, won't be forgotten.”

 

“It's not entirely motivated by my naturally charitable nature,” Minister said sardonically, narrowing his eyes at her slightly. “You will need them. They'll be your allies on the inside, while you operate in the shadows. It's the best I can offer, and the most I can hope to leave behind me.”

 

“Then we have a deal, Minister. I get the freedom to operate as I choose, and the Empire gets an invisible ally.”

 

“Thank you, Cipher - No, not anymore,” the Minister corrected himself. “This will be the last time I call you such. No more designation. Not even a name – you will be a ghost with enough secrets to blackmail the whole galaxy.”

 

Cipher turned from the Minister and crossed to the computer console nearby, drawing the dark datacron from the bag over her shoulder and dropping it into the open port. She waited for the computer to access the data and display the command prompt line.

 

“Activate the Black Codex," she ordered. "Retrieve Imperial security codes and scan for references to agent 'Cipher Nine.' Eliminate them all.” There was a chirping, clicking noise as the Black Codex went to work, erasing her existence from history. A moment later, almost as an afterthought, she added, “Repeat for known associates.”

 

Let the Minister make of that what he would. She raised her head and turned away from the console, thinking again of how she had told Vector she believed that people made their own luck. Sometimes, it was possible to make a little bit of luck for someone else. If he had heard her final words, he made no indication.

 

“The Empire is going to need you,” he concluded. “Someone will be in touch.”

 

“I look forward to it,” she answered. Paha Fennec, the former Imperial Agent Cipher Nine, turned on her heel and walked away. As the conference room door closed behind her, she glanced back. The Minister of Intelligence's piercing blue eyes, forever enigmatic, forever impenetrable, were the last thing she ever saw of him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I thought I would wrap up this story in this final chapter, but the length was starting to creep up, so I decided to cut it, and do one _more_ final chapter. 
> 
> 2\. My recording software glitched out twice - once in the final post-fight conversation with Hunter, and again in the last conversation with the Minister of Intelligence. Two of the most important conversations in the game, and I didn't get them on record. *sob* I remembered a a number of specifics, and enough generalities that I could resurrect most of the conversations from many YouTube videos of others' playthroughs, but none of them were exactly the same (very few, for example, had Vector along as the companion; most of the ones I watched had Kaliyo, Lokin, or Temple; my agent pretty much told the two Sith to go pound sand then killed them, and I didn't find anyone who had directly taken that option - most either cooperated with the Sith, or tricked them into taking a fake copy of the Codex.). It was interesting, though, to see the results of all the other options that I didn't take in my game.
> 
> 3\. I enjoy writing/expanding on the conversations between Cipher and the Minister. They are really fun to write because they're constantly trying to find the hidden meanings in what the other has to say. That's mostly been one-sided, until now, when Cipher indicates she knows she has the upper hand, with the Black Codex in her possession. 
> 
> 4\. I almost had Cipher prompt the Minister to use the Black Codex in the same way - to eliminate his history - but he would object for two reasons, and she knows it: one, he's too well-known. He's not an agent with a cover, he's been forced to become a politician. Second, he has indicated his willingness to fall on the sword (or lightsaber, in this case) to protect the remnants of Intelligence. That is his choice to make, and Cipher respects him for it, and for the lengths he is willing to go to protect them - despite the fact that she knows he is exploitative, manipulative, and abusive.
> 
> In her final command to the Black Codex, she is thinking about her team (more on this next chapter), but she didn't limit her command to just her team - she deliberately said "known associates" and left it at that. If the Codex/computer ends up interpreting that to include Keeper and the Minister, then so be it. She recognizes that in spite of all the manipulation, he really has put his ass on the line multiple times for her, and, now, at the end, for all of Intelligence, and she deeply respects that, plus she would rather work for/with him and Keeper than the Sith. So she is willing to make this little motion on his behalf, the more so since she knows he won't do it for himself.


	36. Epilogue

 

Paha strode rapidly up the ramp to the _Phantom_ with something like a bounce in her step, and Vector noted it as he met her at the entrance hatch. He had been watching for her, as she knew he would be.

 

He had seen her from the bridge as the large bulkhead doors opened to admit her, the falcon wings of dark blue hair dangling against her cheekbones as she turned her head to exchange a passing pleasantry with one of her old colleagues, and, for the first time since before Corellia, he had the chance to observe her from afar, without the clutter of anger and anxiety clouding his vision, or, he discovered with some surprise, muddying hers. At this distance, with all her delicate details masked in the overview of the entirety of her being, she glowed, radiant as a star. A shooting star – _in more ways than one,_ he thought, feeling a smile lifting his features at the inadvertent pun in the idea. A shooting star, brilliant and bright across the heavens, returning to her place in the galaxy. Returning to her ship. Returning to _him_. His smile expanded, and he rose from the bridge console chair to greet her.

 

“How was your meeting?” he inquired, stooping slightly to bestow a quick kiss on her cheek. Clearly, it had gone at least somewhat well, if the signals of satisfaction about her were anything to go by. “Is everything alright?”

 

Paha rested her hands on the arms he had automatically stretched out to her; her touch was warm and light through the sleeves of his light brown coat. “Better than alright,” she answered, her fingers briefly tightening affectionately. “Gather everyone in the conference room, and I'll fill you in as soon as we've launched.”

 

It was a short briefing; less than fifteen minutes later, the _Phantom_ had left the _Tenebrous_ behind and Paha had finished her summary. “That's it. Imperial Intelligence is gone, and Cipher Nine is dead. My history has been wiped clean. And so,” she added pointedly, “has all of yours.”

 

Her scarlet gaze swept around the table. “I am aware that I may have overstepped my authority in making this decision without consulting any of you, and for that I apologize. I didn't have the liberty of asking you individually. I admit there was some amount of self-interest involved: when Hunter blew my cover, it likewise exposed all of you. If you remain known, it won't be long until we are all discovered again. But I suspected that you would not disagree with my choice, which is why I felt myself at liberty to make it. From now on, we choose our own fate.”

 

“Oh,” Kaliyo said with a sort of gleeful chortle, “you are making me _very_ happy.”

 

“No objection from our resident anarchist,” Paha raised an amused and knowing eyebrow. “Your criminal record is gone, and you're not likely to have another, unless you make some extra special effort. What of you, Doctor Lokin? I trust this will not interfere with your oversight of Project Protean?”

 

“Quite the contrary. It will be nice to work in perfect secrecy without having to hide out on Taris.” The doctor's wrinkled face creased into a look of pleased satisfaction. “You don't cease to surprise me.”

 

“Scorpio,” Paha turned to the droid. “You will be able to continue learning as you wish without interference or observation from outside sources.”

 

“I am impressed with the wisdom of your choice; you understand my directives and my goals with an insight I had not initially thought to expect from you,” the droid answered in her usual dispassionate tones. “But the plurality of evidence is decisive: You are an exceptional example of your species. You have earned the privilege of my loyalty. I promise to remain with you for a long time.”

 

Paha shifted her attention to her trainee. “Temple, you have been very quiet.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Raina replied with some hesitation. “Don't mistake me, sir, I am grateful to know that I no longer have to fear the Sith hunting me for my abilities. I guess I am still trying to come to terms with it all. If the Sith are making their own version of Intelligence, what does this make us? If we're not Intelligence, does that mean we're the new Star Cabal?”

 

“A little bit of each, I would say, although with some striking differences,” Paha said solemnly, folding her hands on the tabletop. “Unlike the Cabal, our goal is of course to protect the Empire, not destroy it. To secure it from enemies both external and internal by employing our talents in the way that we best see fit, without the hindrances caused by Sith meddling. But as we are operating in secret, without any sort of official sanction or support – yes, there are some parallels to the Cabal as well as to Intelligence as we would like to remember it.”

 

Before Temple could answer, the holoterminal in the center of the table twittered, and the display above it blossomed into a familiar shape. 

“This is the command ship _Tenebrous_ ,” said Keeper. There were the usual tones of protocol in her voice initially, but it faded as a small smile, exhausted but victorious, tugged at her features. “I thought I'd see you off properly. It might be a while before we do this again.”

 

“Then let's do this formally,” Paha returned. “Secure transmission acknowledged, Keeper.”

 

“Keeper was director of Operations. Operations Division no longer exists, and thus, neither does Keeper.” The young woman who disclaimed her identity inclined her head. “My name is Shara.”

 

“Shara,” repeated Paha in some surprise. She smiled a little, oddly self-conscious. “Nice to meet you. My name is Paha – but I'm sure you knew that much already.”

 

“I did,” Shara admitted, “but there's something to be said for a real introduction after all this time. Nice to meet you, too. Now,” she resumed her customary Keeper voice, “we're getting questions from Dromund Kaas, and I was hoping to set the record straight. What's your plan while we sort things out here?”

 

“Apt timing, as ever. We were just discussing that very thing,” Paha said directly. “We're going to find threats to the Empire, and we're going to stop them. After all, isn't that what we do?”

 

“Perhaps it is,” agreed Shara. “That's good enough for me. Good luck, agent. _Tenebrous_ out.”

 

The image on the holoterminal blinked and vanished.

 

“Well,” said Doctor Lokin, rising from the table. “That's that.”

 

“I guess it is,” said Temple. Her face was grave, but she brightened somewhat as she stood. “Game of dejarik, Doctor?”

 

“Certainly.” His gray eyes flicked to Paha. “Provided, of course, that we are not needed for any pressing matters?”

 

“Dismissed,” Paha nodded genially. “You are all,” she paused as a tiny chuckle tweaked her voice, “entirely free.”

 

“There's a whole galaxy out there,” Kaliyo commented, folding her arms. “Who do we lie to next?”

 

“A meritorious question. If you provide a destination,” Scorpio offered, turning from Kaliyo to Paha, “I will analyze the jump trajectories.”

 

“Right,” griped Kaliyo over her shoulder as she sauntered out the door. “'Cause us hicks can't use a navicomputer.”

 

“For now, Nar Shaddaa,” Paha replied. “It is the perfect place to lay low for a while. And I think we are all overdue for a good long shore leave.”

 

As her two last crew departed the conference room for the bridge, Paha turned her attention to Vector with a long exhalation, feeling the air clear her head and her heart as effectively as it did her lungs.

 

“The song ends,” he said, regarding her with mild, thoughtful eyes, “and the song begins.”

 

“Never ending. Just as you said,” she replied quietly.  Her vermilion gaze met his obsidian one and held it.  “Vector, you're the only one I didn't get to ask. We were interrupted before I had the chance. And you were the only one where I had real qualms about what I chose to do. You have the least reason of all of us to hide, and the most reason to be proud of the achievements you may publicly claim as yours.”

 

Paha glanced down at her hands, uneasy trickles of compunction making eddies in what was otherwise a fairly content aura. “I fear, Vector, that my actions mean you will never be a diplomat again.”

 

“Not openly, perhaps,” Vector said after a moment. “But this was something we had already come to accept, long ago when we Joined. Despite all we achieved with your help, this was not something that had really changed. Our nature allowed us to broker the accord between the Killiks and the Empire – but we know how we are still regarded by most others. By humans, by other alien races. We know that despite our success, we will not be chosen again to negotiate treaties or initiate contact with unallied worlds. Our diplomatic career has come to an end, but not through your doing. We'll always know what we have accomplished, and we are happy with that.”

 

With a touch of exquisite gentleness, he brushed back the hair along her temple, tucking the fine blue strands behind her ear. “Plus,” he added breezily, “we know we'll always have the opportunity to use our skills in the infinitely more delicate negotiations that tend to fall into your hands.”

 

He suited the action to the word, placing his palms on top of her hands where they lay on the table, and automatically, she rolled her hands over within his grasp, curling her fingers into his own, forming a little knot of twisted tan and blue. His thumb wandered absently over the smooth cerulean skin, and she felt her pulse flutter in her throat in response; she was certain he could see it. Vector could see through every part of her; he always had, and he always would. Every weakness, every uncertainty, every desire, every wish – he saw them all, sometimes before she did, without her saying. But she had asked that he remind her, and there was no reason that reminder should be the province of dark times only.

 

“This is our place,” he said, his voice low and clear in its solemnity and feeling. “We intend to remain. Forever.”

 

“Forever,” Paha repeated in a whisper. She leaned forward abruptly, pressing her parted lips fervently to his.  He withdrew one hand from their grasp and slid it up the outside of her arm to her shoulder, gently pulling her towards him, and then in the blink of an eye she was there in his arms and in his lap, the taste of her in his mouth and the feel of her in his hands, and his heart racing loudly in his ears.

 

She perched half-astride him, relaxing into the happy security of his embrace and the euphoric heat of his lips on hers, slow and sweet and drawing out all the passion and love she felt welling up within her, all that had been suppressed under the stress and horror of the past days, all that she wanted now more than anything to share with him. With a hitching movement, Vector pulled her tightly against him, his arm wrapped around to press her close and marveling, even now, that she could be both so strong and so soft at the same time.

 

“If we might make a diplomatic suggestion,” he murmured huskily along the arc of her throat, “it might be wise to consider moving to a more private location.”

 

For a moment, Paha was far too preoccupied with the tremulous shivers that danced through her nerves at the feather-light pressure of his lips and breath against her neck to muster a sensible reply, but every part of her was signaling her wordless agreement, from the breath that fired rapid and shallow in her chest to the spicy perfume of her desire, ardent and flaring from her body and her spirit alike.

 

“Wise indeed,” she breathed when she found her voice again, and half-rising from his arms, “particularly as those delicate negotiations might become... aggressive.”

 

As she stood, his hands slid down her body to rest on the swell of her hips, warm even through the intervening layers of her clothing, and the weight of them there emphasized the eager, comfortable ache that burned in her tissues, longing for his hands anywhere and everywhere. She released the reins on the feelings she kept so firmly restrained, and their rush, joined with the flood of sensations far more physical, conspired to nearly choke her. Did he know? How much she wanted him, how much she loved him, how her desire for him nearly made her knees betray her? The onyx pools of his eyes gazed up at her with a mingling expression of anticipation and desire and acute perception, and she caught her lip between her white teeth. Oh yes, he did. He knew exactly the effect his touch had on her, exactly how his low voice against her ear made her heart stumble. And always, always, he was fervently grateful for it, no matter how much she might tell him he didn't need to be.

 

His eyebrow edged upward slightly. “Fortunate, then, that we are such an experienced mediator.”

 

She laughed, open and honest and untouched by the vinegar taste of sarcasm and bitterness, her sparkling aura and her eyes dancing together with golden light as she pulled enticingly away, every thrilling nerve of hers humming in tune with his, drawing him irresistibly after her. They were humming still, later, after their chords had been drawn out in a crescendo of rapturous harmony, and Paha and Vector lay silent and still in each others' arms, listening to the unified rhythm of their hearts and knowing they were drones no more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Oh my god. It's done. I finished it. Oh my god. 171,000+ words and 302 pages written in just about five months; far far _far_ more than I had ever planned on writing when I started this! Lordy, that's an average of over 34000 words a month.
> 
> 2\. There will be a few follow-up stories. Short stories. Short _er_ stories, at least. I have the introductory bare bones of one started. Here's your teaser:
> 
>  
> 
> _"We thought it would be prudent to write, to... alert them to our arrival. But now that we sit down to it, we don't know what to say."_  
>  _"Alert them? They're your parents. Of course they'll want to see you."_
> 
>  
> 
> Most of it hasn't been committed to paper yet, so that's all you get ;D
> 
> 3\. I am toying around with some ficcy bits for my Sith Warrior/Quinn romance, but it needs a lot of work, and I most seriously intend it to be much _much_ shorter than _Drones_. Perhaps I will get brave and write them a bit more smutty, too (!). 
> 
> 4\. Finally - but only final because I wanted save the best for last - I extend my heartfelt gratitude to every reader, commenter, and kudos-giver! Your interest, patience, compliments, and attention have been more meaningful to me than I can express. I used to shy away from writing fanfic, for a variety of reasons, but I have met some truly wonderful people here, and have had really really excellent conversations with many via comment threads. I can't think of another online community that I have wandered into that has been so immediately and unreservedly welcoming and generous with their kindness. Thank you all. I'll be seeing you!

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This is my first time really writing/uploading a fanfic. I will do my best to not suck.
> 
> 2\. I started listening to Muse's new album "Drones" as I was writing this, and album's themes struck me as particularly apt: war on a global (or galactic) scale, military ruthlessness, brainwashing, governmental control, the corrupting influence of power, and people's reactions to these things. It also got me thinking about the various definitions of the word "drone," which led me to adopting the word for the title.
> 
> 3\. I'm wordy. I've been reading a lot of Fanny Burney and Samuel Richardson lately. No shame, no remorse!
> 
> 4\. Many conversations taken directly from SWTOR, with or without slight alterations/expansions.
> 
> 5\. Since my first RPG (City of Heroes!), I've always somehow named my characters after foxes, usually using the word for "fox" in various foreign languages. For SWTOR, I chose "Fennec" (the most adorable fox ever; seriously, go look it up) for the legacy name and various epithets in a variety of languages for the given name. In this case, "Paha" is Finnish for "evil," however, I found her actually very carefully treading an extremely neutral line rather than following her namesake. Her view is genuinely to serve the Empire, and the sloppy chaotic evil of many of the Sith disgusts her. She feels it is better to make a Light Side decision if it will enforce good will or loyalty to the Empire.


End file.
